


You Only Live Twice

by fatmabari



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Clones, Convoluted Headcanons, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Relationships, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Oral Sex, Past Drug Addiction, Plot, Psychological Drama, Respawn, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Trust Issues, dad!spy, non-class names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-11 18:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4447349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatmabari/pseuds/fatmabari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BLU Spy is caught sneaking around the RED Medic's lab, but not before discovering a secret that could change Teufort and the lives of eighteen mercenaries forever. Upon his release, he is left with more questions than answers, and seeking an ally in the most unlikely of places. But as they may all soon discover, the real enemy is not so easily defined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

To most men, the stirring of the nocturnal wildlife was not easy to get accustomed to. What seemed a dry and barren wasteland by day came alive at night. The New Mexican deserts teemed with night birds, small mammals, and coyotes. Their calls were mournful and sometimes eerie, and altogether far louder than one might expect.

Mick Mundy was not most men, however.  
  
Raised in the Australian outback, the wiry, rugged man had proved an introverted sort from early on, sneaking off for the entire day to explore the bush on his own since he was a boy of eight or so. His father started teaching him to hunt and survive in the wilderness, but much of his skills by now were self-taught.   
  
His sharp senses caught every sound and he knew its maker by name. Every change in his environment - from the slightest scent on the winds to a miniscule drop in temperature - was noted, though he did not often given any indication he had noticed. So when the quiet shuffling of distinctly human footsteps continued to get closer to his van, Mick did not jump up or call out. Best not to alert whoever was approaching; it was obvious from the careful pacing of the steps that his visitor was trying to be silent.   
  
Mick slid his hand across the mattress to his side where his kukri rested, gripping the hilt and keeping his breathing muted to hear better. A glimpse up at open ceiling window of his camper confirmed dawn had to still be hours away. Who the hell would bother him now? His teammates rarely came this way unless there was news from Administration when he was off-duty. And they wouldn't sneak about, either.   
  
The scuffling got louder just to the right of the back door, and then stopped. Mick scowled, waiting several minutes for another movement. Nothing. To bloody hell with this. He slipped down from his bunk with as little noise as possible and positioned himself just to the side of the door. Kukri poised to swing out, he flipped the metal latch on the door and threw it open.  
  
No one. Just him, standing like a damned fool in his boxer shorts. He had heard someone. They couldn't have left, not without making the same amount of sound. But there was no one. Unless...  
  
Mick huffed. "Oi, Spook, what the hell do you want?"  
  
An amused chuckle filled the space to his right, and then the familiar clicks of the spy's cloaking watch disengaging served as a proper announcement. Spy stood before him, polished and calm as always. The only indication the Frenchman knew it was past work hours, let alone the middle of the night, was the absence of his blue pinstripe coat and a loosened tie. His dress shirt sleeves were rolled partway up his forearms, and he was already lighting one of his overpriced cigarettes as he peered up at Mick with those gray-blue eyes of his.  
  
Mick dropped his arm to his side. "Bloody hell, ya wanker, what time is it?"

Spy shrugged, taking a long drag before slipping the lighter back into his pocket. "Late. You're awake, are you not?"  
  
"I'd better be. Rather not consider the possibility of dreamin' about you, ya snake." The man always had a way of getting under his skin.   
  
"Hmm. And what is it that you prefer to dream of?" he asked.  
  
"Wouldn't ya like to know?"  
  
"That is, generally, the purpose of asking a question, non?" A tiny smirk twisted the corners of his mouth.  
  
Mick bristled at the retort. "I'll ask ya again; what do ya want?"

The Frenchman took another puff off his cigarette before holding it up and staring at it. He still wore his soft leather gloves. Twisting the cigarette between his fingers he let out a deep sigh. "I want you to stop this little habit of letting me win. It is insulting." Spy flung the cigarette away with the flick of a finger and met his rival's eyes. "I do not need your pity and would appreciate it if you returned to taking this job seriously."  
  
Mick felt his jaw hanging open and forced himself to close it. So he'd noticed after all.   
  
The BLU Spy had spent nearly a week missing in action. No one on either team could locate him. As far as anyone had known, he was gone, perhaps blown to so many pieces by one of Demo's newest creations that even Respawn could not pick him up. Until Heavy had confided to Mick where he was, that is.   
  
Of everyone on BLU team, it was their damn Spy that caused him the most grief. He recognized Mick as a threat, and was the only one who could approach his easily defensible nest undetected under the safety of his cloaking device. By now, neither of them could give an accurate score of who had killed whom more times without an extensive leaderboard report. So why Mick had felt so disturbed by his Medic's 'research' that he had snuck into the man's lab and sprung Spy back to Respawn with a mercy kill was a mystery. But he had. And what was more annoying than that fact was this pervasive concern for the enemy's well-being that kept pestering his practical sensibilities.  
  
"Fine," was all Mick could manage. But Spy was not doing well. Far from it.  This desert was just like the outback. No light pollution from cities to drown out the crystalline shimmer of billions of stars. The moon was waning, just a small sliver among that bed of stars. It was enough light to see how Spy's eyes glistened while he regarded him. There were bags under them too, puffy and exaggerated by the outline of his blue balaclava. This wasn't the first night he was up so late.

"Merci, monsieur," Spy said at last, obviously not interested in making a scene. He started to leave.  
  
"Oi, wait!" Mick called, forgetting himself.  
  
Spy turned, lifting an eyebrow at him. He stayed silent.   
  
Well this felt rather uncomfortable. He had no idea where he was going with this, either. "Ya... want some coffee or somethin'?" What a stupid thing to ask.

The enemy Spy stared at him, expression difficult to read now that he was a few few away in the darkness. "It is two in the morning, you are half-naked, and even if I wanted to, you are my enemy. Bonne nuit, Sniper."

* * *

 

"They are just clones, Herr Sniper." A large syringe was deposited into Mick's hand while the doctor continued to rifle through the endless supply cabinet. "Here, hold this."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But don't ya think it was... I dunno a bit much, mate? Bloke ain't right. He's a bloody mess!" Mick hoped to god this needle was not intended for use on him.

"Who is?" Medic's attention span was not a reliable thing. In fact nothing about Medic was reliable, unless you were the Heavy. The big Russian had a way of calming the storm in the older man, often without saying so much as a single word. 

Mick sighed, eyeing the framed drawing of the human body's internal organs hung behind the doctor's desk. It was all in German, of course. "The bloody BLU Spy!"

Medic turned and gave him a demeaning little smile, complete with a pat on the shoulder. "Oh, don't be such a soft touch, this is war after all!"

"Right... Look just don't do it again, okay mate?"

The German's mouth contorted into something of a confused pout. "What? Why not? I learned a great deal of fascinating things! It is a chance to take this progress-" and he gestured to his prized medigun "-to new heights! Imagine what we can accomplish for medical science!"

Mick had never liked the idea of the the clones to begin with. In fact none of them did. They'd agreed to it as part of their contracts though, not thinking much about what they had to sign so long as it kept their own interests protected. Over time they came to view it all as some sick, surreal comedy. That was really all it was in truth. Only Medic found there to be nothing disturbing about the near-perfect copies. "Look, these buggers... did they really... start out with our memories?"

"Well of course they did," Medic chirped, returning to rummaging through his cabinet. "How else would they have the proper training? That's really the most fascinating part of it all. They don't retain the more, hm, personal ones completely, don't worry. The process is not perfected. Each time they pass through Respawn, they replicate using incomplete DNA. This... blueprint is filled in over time, and the clones become more autonomous."

Mick peered at the syringe in his hand once more before setting it on the edge of Medic's desk with care. "All I'm sayin' is, well they're us mate! It's weird."

Medic gave a little chuckle that set a chill down his spine. "Oh Herr Sniper, you do not understand. I am saying, they will lose those memories! With every respawn, our little copies become more like..." He paused, shrugging. "Well to be honest, more like experiments than people."

Mick's mouth hung agape. "What?"

The doctor held up a bottle with a worn label, peering at the eerily bright green pills inside. "Oh, not that much different of course. Little things, you know. By now they have become confused. They can't always remember the things we can, all they really know for sure is this place."

"You're sayin' they're... that they're gonna forget all of it?" Mick felt sick for some reason. He'd killed people long before seeing all this unapproved medical technology they had. It shouldn't have mattered. But BLU Spy's pained and exhausted face kept skirting across his mind's eye.

"Well, everything they didn't experience themselves. Fascinating, ja?" Medic's deep blue eyes lit up even brighter behind his thin spectacles as he spoke. One could never say the German lacked passion for his work.

"Do they... realize what's happenin'?"

"What?" A sigh of exasperation preceded his next statement. He scribbled something in German in a small, neat hand onto his clipboard. "Well, your hinterhältig Freund the Spy does. He was pawing through my files when I caught him."

That was why Spy was acting so morose. He knew what he was.

Mick's stomach churned. He needed to get out of the medical bay. It wasn't Medic's attitude of considering BLU to be his personal lab rats that repulsed him. At least not as a whole. It was a little sick, but that was Medic's nature. The German had an insatiable curiosity that far exceeded any need for morality. They all knew it, though some were more comfortable than others. For the most part, he had always shrugged it off as an inconsequential quirk. Medic kept them alive on the field and able to do their jobs, and even if his mental stability was in question, no one could deny he got results. He was the perfect picture of the mad genius, and so long as he was on their side, Mick didn’t much care what macabre interests he had.

What left a bitter taste on his tongue was knowing that the BLU team members believed they had lived normal lives. They had thought and felt all of the same things as he and his teammates had, and they were slowly losing those. They weren’t just some mirrored image, unaware of their origins and fighting mindless fights. What did Spy keep going for, if he realized it was all so pointless? Maybe even he didn't know what it was he fought for still. And the others, all of BLU, were going to come to that same agonizing conclusion when their memories were all gone.

“Herr Sniper? Sniper? Are you quite alright?” A red-gloved hand was waving in front of his line of sight, yet somehow he only just noticed it. “You look a bit pale."

“Er, yeah. Sorry, Doc. I’m just tired, I guess…” He leaned back and then took a step away from the hand being flashed back and forth in his face.

“Hmmm… Well perhaps you ought to stop drinking so much of that vile caffeine and get some sleep, ja?” Medic adjusted his spectacles, his tone falling into a familiar lull. He always used that voice for his lectures; Spy got the same for his incessant smoking, Demo for his drinking. They were used to tuning it out.

Mick waved a hand at him. “Yeah, sure, Doc,” he grumbled, heading for the door.

Not two seconds after he’d left the German’s office his ears picked up on the unmistakable hooting and howling of Demo and Soldier celebrating the day’s victories over god-knew-what sort of alcoholic concoctions the Scotsman had invented. Deciding he’d rather not get mixed up in whatever rowdiness they were stirring up, he took a deliberate turn to avoid the commons. Lost in his own thoughts was not always a good place to be when on the main base. Someone was always going to be doing something stupid; it was inevitable with his teammates. Sure, he was fond of them all, but he preferred them in small doses. Hence why he insisted on staying in his camper instead of the assigned room he was given. It was small, and the others never grew tired of poking fun, but it was his.

At some point in his slow, aimless wanderings, he was forced to accept there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to keep his mind off of what Medic had just told him. Did the others know? Engie had to, and certainly their own Spy. Come to think of it, Spy had been making himself scarce as of late. Maybe it was a long shot, but if the two were connected, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea to pay the Frenchman a visit.

There was nothing luxurious about the bases in Teufort. Falling apart in places from age and blown apart by endless squabbling in others, the buildings relied on Engie’s continued dedication to even keep most of them standing. Miss Pauling had once told him the original parts of the mill’s structure had long since polluted the entire area around it. In short, it was a dump. There was one place in particular, however, that seemed to defy those rules: the Spy’s smoking lounge.

Unlike the rest of his colleagues, Spy was a sophisticated individual, and refused to forego the lifestyle of class and refinement to which he was accustomed. How he had convinced the Administrator to let him set up his personal study was anyone’s guess. The Frenchman had all the charm in the world when he wanted, however, and it did not seem unreasonable that he could have acquired her permission without much effort. Spy retreated to that room the same way Mick sought the solitude of his camper. The constant antics of the younger team members wore on them both. It was the only thing he and the rogue had in common, yet sometimes that was enough. 

He wondered if BLU Spy had such a room on his base.

Mick's worn boots knocked out a lazy rhythm on the wooden floor, echoing off the slats along the walls and ceiling. He kept his eyes down, staring at the scuffed leather toes rather than watching where he was going; he could have made the trip in the dark, anyway. The smell of tobacco wafting through the door left a trail strong enough for a blind dingo to follow.

He rapped his knuckles against the door.

“Go away,” came the irate voice on the other side.

He knew that tone; Scout must have been pestering him again. “Oi, Spy, it's me."

After a brief pause, the Frenchman called back. “It is unlocked.” One could have heard his eyes roll just from the deliberate way he said it.

Mick shoved the door open, trying not to cough on the hazy cloud that greeted him. Sure, he enjoyed the occasional smoke, but Spy’s habit was to the extreme. He batted at the air a few times, a futile attempt to be rid of the stinging in his eyes, and then kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. “Ya been in here all evenin’?” he asked. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he approached the other man.

“And where else would I be?” Spy grumbled, not looking up from the book in his lap. Mick tried to get a glimpse of the title, but only caught the author’s name: Victor Hugo. Whoever that was. Probably some French nonsense.

With a shrug he made his way over to the small bar table at opposite the seated Frenchman and leaned back against the edge of it. There were other chairs in the room, just not positioned for conversation. That was presumably by design. When Spy wanted company, he sought it out. “Scout gettin’ on your nerves again?” he asked, not quite able to hide his smirk.

A pair of gray-blue eyes lifted from the pages of his book to glare at him. “No more than the rest of this collection of imbeciles calling themselves mercenaries."

Well, he was in a foul mood. Mick folded his arms across his chest. “Look, ya know I wouldn’t bother ya if it wasn’t important…"

“Out with it then,” he snapped. The book in his gloved hands slammed shut. Others might have been intimidated by the act. He never was, and Spy knew it.

“Ya know what happened. I know ya do."

Spy managed a small smirk. “Of course I do, bushman. I would be a rather poor spy if I did not."

“Yeah. That why ya been avoidin’ the doc?” He met the Frenchman’s gaze without blinking, holding it there so he could not look away.

Spy’s eyes darkened. For a moment no one spoke. The fireplace behind him crackled, casting its flickering light over the countless bookcases along the walls. Those shadows danced in an almost frantic pattern in an effort to fill the tension as the walls closed in. Then Spy sighed and stood, tossing his novel down where he’d been sitting. He pulled away from the eye contact as he approached the table, reaching for a wine bottle. “...Oui.”

Well that admission was easier to come by than he’d dare hope. “Nice to know I’m not the only one creeped out by it,” he said, turning his head to the side to watch his comrade.

“Regardless, this is best left alone.” Spy seemed to have made a very art out of pouring his drink, so meticulous in his actions that Mick wanted to snatch the bottle away from him and fill the damn glass for him. “The docteur has discovered some… useful information that can help us. If he can do so without cutting yours truly open, I can hardly complain about the methods."

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ me, Spy!”

“Non, I am not.” He took a long swallow from the glass in his hand before turning to Mick at last. “This is our job. Nothing more.”

He shouldn’t have expected anything. BLU was the enemy, at least so far as they were concerned. Their job was to keep this going. Not everyone on the team even knew the twisted nature of this game they were all playing for the sake of a mysterious old woman’s ambitions. Most of them still thought it was a legitimate competition. True, their wages were directly impacted by their performance on the field, but little else mattered. They were immortal out there. It hurt like hell, sure, but it never ended for good.

Spy noticed the internal conflict. “You should have sent him on his way, mon ami. Respawn is on all night."

Mick felt the blood wash from his face. “You…"

“How many times must I remind you? It is my job to know these things.” He scowled at him. “You’ve really been letting him win?"

His heart pounded in his chest, stumbling over a few beats in rapid succession. He glanced away from his teammate. “Nah… I mean… Not really…"

"The others will notice the change in your scores,” he said. His tone carried only the faintest hint of concern all but drowned out by the overall critical nature of his words.

“Bloody hell, Spy, he’s… well he was… _you_. Sorta.” Mick drew his hand palm over his face with a weary sigh. “Fuck. This don't matter. I know it. But…” He trailed off, sliding his thumb and index finger up under his sunglasses to rub at his eyes. There was a clink of glass being set down on a hard surface and then a hand snatched the edge of his vest and yanked him off-balance, forcing him to spring a leg out to one side to hold himself up. “Oi, Spy, wha-"

“Shut up! He is not me. They are mockeries of us. Never forget that.”

Mick blinked at him, shocked by the outburst. He stared like a deer caught in headlights for a few heartbeats until a crackle in the fireplace was followed by the shifting of the fire’s glow. With the Frenchman’s face better illuminated than before, he could see what was wrong. Spy was _frightened_. He was used to being in control, after all. Wearing someone else’s face, or lost in darkness completely, he was the master of his game of subterfuge. No one knew his true identity, no one ever saw his real face; Mick wondered if even Medic had seen him without his balaclava. Not only had he been replicated without consent for this peculiar game, but now he had to see that copy of himself falling apart. That had to be an unsettling thing.

Collecting himself, Mick swatted his coworker’s hand aside with a light sweep of his own hand. “Oi, calm down mate."

The other man stared him down several seconds longer before pivoting away on his heel. “Just do your job, bushman."

He brushed a hand over the edge of his vest as if somehow straightening it would restore his chafed nerves. His mouth opened to say something, but there wasn’t anything worth saying. Even if Spy was as disturbed by their situation, he wasn’t about to discuss it with him. And what good would it really do, anyway? They were under contract. Best to just forget about it. “Yeah. Sure… Night, mate."

Spy did not so much as look back in his direction, and so he left the room, defeated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shameless Bond reference with the title ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. Chapter 2

The knife plunged toward his neck, but he wasn't looking at it. He had time. He could grab the enemy Spy's wrist and fight him back. He wasn't out of options and his opponent knew that, yet he didn't seem to be trying all that hard either. He could kick him off, wrestle that balisong from his grip. Mick could see the Frenchman's smokey blue eyes clearer than ever; his sunglasses had fallen off in the tussle. They were cold, enraged, and uncompromising. But the bags were still there under them, the lids still puffy and the edges still bloodshot. Spy still wasn't sleeping.

If he woke up in Respawn, he'd have a lot of explaining to do. Damn him, he shouldn't have said anything to his own team's Spy. He'd be watching the results of any conflicts between Mick and his counterpart with extra interest now.

_Just finish this_. He could. His kukri was at arm's length. Spy was testing him, wanting to know if he would honor his request. Daring him to ignore that demand he'd made the night before.

"Coward, fight!" Spy shouted at him, grabbing hold of his collar and slamming him into the wood floor of his nest. The hand holding his knife shook.

Mick stupidly reached a hand up towards Spy's face. He couldn't even comprehend why he was doing it. What the hell did he think was going to happen? That all of this was just going to go away, that these stupid feelings he didn’t ask for were going to make everything better somehow? Yeah, he felt bad for the guy, but he had a damn job to do and he signed up for it. 

_Don't be such a soft touch._

He jerked his hand back, but the other man had already caught his original intent. The Frenchman froze, gawking at him from above, from shock or confusion or both.

"Go on," Mick coaxed, because the things that he needed to say couldn't be said. He wanted to ask if he was feeling better, but what assassin goes asking his enemy something like that? Besides, he knew the answer.

"I do not need your permission, bushman."

"Nah, ya don't."

The stainless steel double-blades drove into the soft skin of his exposed throat, severing the jugular vein and snapping through cartilage and tendons with a sick sucking sound.

 

* * *

 

Death at Spy's hands was always quick, at least. The sudden shock of a single, fatal wound that shook his core, and then nothing. Rarely any time for pain to set in before his body expired. Not that pain didn't come afterwards, waking up in that Respawn room - the salvation and the curse of their lives. The agony of death wracked the body for a moment afterwards. Sometimes even several minutes.

Mick struggled, half-stumbling to his feet and squinting against the light burning its was into his returning eyesight. Nauseating agony radiated from the nerves in his neck, though he resisted the instinct to lift his hand to the stab site. Nothing would be there now. Respawn could repair everything, as far as any of them knew. Even Medic envied its lack of limitations.

"Interesting that he should be targeting you, don't you think, Herr Sniper?"

Mick felt his body tense. Speak of the quack now. "Yeah. Real interestin'," he growled.

He allowed his gaze another few seconds to adjust before drawing his eyes up to Medic's face. Standing with his back turned partway to the field, splattered with a dozen instances of blood in varying stages of drying, the German seemed to be waiting for someone. The Heavy, no doubt. It was a wonder Medic had bothered to implant the Uber devices in all of them, seeing as how he only ever seemed to utilize it with the Russian. There wasn’t any arguing that it was best-used on him though, with the way that gun of his fired off more bloody bullets in a minute than Mick had fired from his rifle in his entire lifetime.

"The Sniper and the Spy," the doctor went on, an amused ring to his voice. "The two of you have always shared a certain rivalry. It vould be a shame to see that tip in his favor, ja?" Medic leveled a broad grin in his direction, perfect white teeth flashing in the glow of artificial light. Mick couldn't claim he’d never considered the man behind that grin. Deep, stunning blue eyes and slick black hair with just a hint of grey at the temples flattered his sculpted face and square jawline. That, combined with a muscular build not at all to be expected from one of his profession, made it impossible to deny that Medic was indeed very handsome.

He was also insane. Certifiably so. Hell, he probably was certified in half of Europe. Heavy had confided in him and Engie one evening that the German had, in fact, related to him that he had lost his medical license. Not that it seemed to matter to Administration. Or maybe it did matter, and that was exactly why he was here. And at the moment? Well, something about the German's tone raised every hair on the back of his neck. Medic hadn't appeared to be paying much attention when he's confronted him about this yesterday. Maybe that had just been a clever act on his part.

"Guess he's fightin' harder to stay outta your fridge, huh Doc?" he managed to retort, though not as soon as he would have liked.

Medic's grin did not fade, but something about it changed nevertheless. Had it taken on a more sinister quality, or was that just his imagination? What did he know? Before the German could answer him, a loud voice echoed down into the hall outside of Respawn.

“Doktor! We go together!" Sure enough, Heavy must have blasted his way across the field special to fetch Medic. Now he stood outside the mechanical metal door with his usual no-nonsense, stoic expression. Mick never imagined he'd be so happy to see the big guy.

“Looks like your bodyguard came to fetch ya, Nurse,” Mick dared, keeping his voice too low for the Russian to hear him at the door.

It was as if the room got just a bit darker the moment he spoke. Medic’s eyes narrowed on him, and the shadows on his chiseled features deepened, the edges grew sharper. He’d hit all the right nerves then. It wasn’t the best idea to go crossing the doc, but if reminding him that he knew which buttons to push back would at least keep them on equal ground, he didn’t mind being conveniently unheard should he need healing later.

“We shall see who needs protecting soon enough, won’t we, _Herr_ Mundy?” he said at length, and the usual high pitch in his voice had turned into something almost jarring, like sandpaper over glass.

Had he just made an enemy? It was impossible to know. He still wasn’t sure if he’d been forgiven for cutting his ‘experiments’ with the BLU Spy short. “That a threat, mate?”

As soon as he dared break the staring contest long enough to blink, the ominous shadows had fallen away. “A threat? Why would it be? We are colleagues,” Medic laughed, an almost childlike, playful lilt to each note. It was almost pleasant, and might have been infectious had it not just come from a man who’d looked ready to murder him while Respawn was down for repair just moments ago.

“Doktor! Sniper too! Team needs us!” Heavy bellowed at them, looking half-annoyed and the other half confused as to why his teammates were standing still. Either the tension had not been visible or he wasn’t concerning himself with it.

Sniper let out a grumbled, “Yeah, we are,” in response to Medic and made his way back out to the battle. He could do without seeing Medic for a little while.

The rest of the day's fighting went on without another sign of the BLU Spy. His nest was vacant when he got back up to it, and he stayed there taking as many pot-shots at the enemy Medic as he could. Maybe it was a bit unfair to single the bastard out, but the clone had to be at least as crazy as the original. And he couldn't shoot his own teammate, not even on 'accident'. He was a professional, not a crazed gunman, as his father was so fond of saying

When the final call for the day sounded, he chose to forego dinner just to avoid the others. If he got too hungry he still had some beef jerky stashed in the camper. Steering clear of his team's Spy was the top priority at the moment. Both of them could keep their distance, to be honest. He hadn't slept well, and he needed to rest. Odd dreams plagued him; fabricated scenarios of what it would be like to know everything he was amounted to a conglomeration of events he'd never lived.

At one point during the fighting, he'd had a perfect shot at his own counterpart. The enemy Sniper had focused his attention on Medic. He could have stopped him before he ever made that shot. But he hadn't been able to. The tight trigger had snapped back, unpulled, as his hand shook, and he dropped back behind cover. A moment later the BLU Sniper's shot had rung out. He realized now that was the very shot that had placed Medic in Respawn when he'd met him there.

Shaking his head at the irony of it all, Mick glanced up towards his camper, several yards away and lit up by the deep oranges of a setting sun. And then the sand shifted a few paces ahead of him. He stopped in his tracks. The two depressions in front of him could be nothing other than footprints.

“Shit."

It all happened too fast for him to act. By the time he was reaching for his kukri and cursing himself for not expecting this, an invisible force had already pulled him forward. The momentum set him stumbling ahead of himself. Then he was released just as his attacker uncloaked and sidestepped out of his way, sending him sprawling face-first into the ground. Mick's heart threatened to burst in his chest as he swung his legs around and rolled off to the side. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t been in a real fight outside of matches in years, but even if his van was in Respawn's range, this was different. Every second he saw Spy closing in on him with his knife ready went on for an eternity, and yet it wasn’t enough time for his stupid, fumbling hands to grab a weapon for himself.

And then the world snapped back to the present, but Spy was on top of him, half-kneeling with his left foot coming down beside Mick's shoulder. A gloved palm slammed flat against his chest, pounding his back into the rocky desert ground while the other hand flipped the blade of the balisong around once so that it waited ready at Mick's throat.

“You filthy sonofabitch!” Spy hissed with his face inches from his own. “Did I not make myself clear enough for your miniscule intellect?"

He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, feeling his Adam’s apple just brush against the cold steel of the knife when he did so. Spy had kicked his arm out of the way when he jumped him. There was no way he could get to his kukri now.

_Respawn is on all night._

“Look, mate, ya need to back off. I’m doin’ ya a bloody favor!"

Spy jerked his hand down again, forcing the breath from Mick's lungs. “‘Favor’? Making a fool of the both of us is not a favor, bushman!” Mick moved a hand to try to grab Spy’s wrist, but the rogue caught his intent and pressed his knife flush with his skin. “One more move and I carve you into so many pieces Respawn will take days to sort them all out."

“Oi, listen to me!” The blade was pushing into that first layer of skin, the elasticity of it one breath away from giving out and splitting. “I know… I just…” But he couldn’t say it. If he did, Spy would kill him for sure. From the way those gray-blue eyes glistened with hatred, there was no question he’d make it slow. So he held still, his pulse pounding out a rapid rhythm that seemed to mimic the tension between them. The cool night air had begun to creep in now that the sun had taken its final dip behind the horizon, but it only served to make the heat of Spy’s body so close to his all the more palpable. This couldn’t go on. “Look… just tell me somethin’?"

Spy’s eyes narrowed, and the hint of flaring nostrils beneath his balaclava made it clear he didn’t much approve of the request. “Ask. I promise nothing."

Mick took a deep breath through his nose, remembering not to move too much lest that damnable blade press any closer. “If ya know… I mean about bein' …cloned or whatever… Why keep fightin’?"

For a moment, Spy’s eyes snapped open wider, a twitch running along the right side of his jaw under the tight fabric of his mask as he stared at him. He appeared taken so off guard that for a moment Mick wondered if Medic had been right after all. Just as the panic set in and he wondered what he’d gone and unleashed, his assailant regained his composition and his expression darkened once more. “Is that all? You wanted to pretend the enemy was nothing more than mindless drones. That is how you justify those… experiments of yours, non?”

A sharp, cold pain in his neck caused his head to snap back away from the Spy, but the reward was a dull thud where his skull cracked against the rocky ground. Head reeling, he forced himself to focus on the other man as he drew his knife along his skin. The motion was deliberate but careful. It was to send a message, cutting through the bare minimum of surface skin just enough to draw blood. He held the knife up to show him, a thin red line now gracing the edge. “Keep your sympathy, bushman. You know less than nothing."

Maybe it was the stinging in his neck that had managed to irritate him just enough, or perhaps he was embarrassed for having cared at all, but he found he was more than content to acquiesce. “Ya know what? Maybe I shoulda left you in that lab after all.”

“Hmph. Maybe so.” He flashed him an icy smile, devoid of all humor. “Then we are done with this little charade?” There was a hollowness there in his voice, but he leaned back away from Mick and moved to put his blade away.

“Yeah. We’re done all right. Get oughta here before I make up for all those times I coulda snuffed ya.” He shuffled back along the ground as Spy stood, kicking his legs up underneath himself and standing as well, ready to go for his knife as soon as the enemy changed his mind.

But he never did. After regarding him for a minute longer, he lifted his arm and activated his cloak-and-dagger watch, and the BLU Spy was gone once again.

 

* * *

 

BLU Heavy was getting too damn far off to the side of his nest and out of range, and Scout still hadn’t reached his point. The last thing he wanted was for the giant Russian to hit Respawn before the kid had passed that area. He also didn’t want to miss this shot. The others had started to talk, they were noticing his performance deteriorating. If he didn't get some kills in soon, his teammates might start digging deeper into his personal affairs than he could afford.

“Bloody pikers… what do I even care?” he grumbled, leaning off to the side and toying with the trigger of his rifle. “Fuck it.” He flopped back behind the cover of a crate and sighed. Didn’t matter. None of this mattered.

Mick tilted his hat back, running the back of his hand across his brow to wipe the sweat away. The sun had circled around and was all but cooking him up there. He scanned the ground, spotting Scout just as he bolted out of the warehouse. Nimble legs maneuvered with practiced ease as he ran, bullets from the BLU sentry posted nearby pounding harmless holes into the dusty ground. Maybe he ought to move to a different point and see if he could cover Scout better from there. Just considering that was more effort than he could muster up.

Mick was hating this job more with every day. Every shot he fired was a little less satisfying. They’d just be back up. Yeah, he was an assassin, and now was a fine time to be considering his morals, but something about this whole setup was rotten to the core. It wasn’t just the cloning, or even that none of them was ever going to win or lose as far as that they could tell. It was the fact that they were trapped in this contract. When their employers had accomplished whatever it was they were trying to, what was going to happen to those clones? Mick had a sinking suspicion they were to be ‘disposed of’.

And of course he thought of the Spy. That frustrating thorn in his side with his playful eyes and smug cheshire cat grin. Always on his tail, the maker of at least three scars from scuffles he’d survived long enough to delay Respawn from healing all the way, that damn Frenchman was nothing but a headache.

But then the cheshire cat had stopped grinning, and bloody hell but he _missed_ that sight. It was the only thing that had kept this place interesting.

The familiar scent of a certain brand of cigarettes wafted past him, just enough to get his attention. Spy never missed his cue, even a silent one. But he didn’t move for the kill yet.

“Spook,” he said, tone flat.

“I must be losing my touch.”

Light glinted from the corner of his eye, the sun catching off the blade of the balisong falling toward him. Mick dove forward into a roll, spinning at the end into a crouch with his kukri in hand. Spy uncloaked as his strike sliced through empty air and he spun to face him.

“You missed your shot, bushman,” he taunted.

Mick spat to the side. “Got my reasons."

“I think your reasons are that you’re getting soft.” Spy narrowed his slate blue eyes on him, full of spite. All the fun in this was gone for him, too.

Maybe he was getting soft. He was a hired killer. He had standards. How many times had he said that? _It’s not about feelings. Professionals have standards._ “I’ll show ya soft.”

Mick sprang forward, curved knife ready to slice into the Spy. It made contact, but not as deep as he needed. When he pivoted back to face the enemy, he saw where his attack had cut through the pinstriped jacket and into his arm. Blood soaked the area but he was far from incapacitated. And now he was pissed.

“This suit isn’t cheap.”

“Then wear a fuckin’ uniform like the rest of us, ya git!” Mick flipped the handle of his knife in his hand to turn it the other direction. He was fed up with being ‘tested’ to see if he’d still put up a fight. If Spy wanted one, he’d get it.

Spy came at him with his knife from the side, feigning a lower attack. Mick saw the bluff, but a second too late. The Frenchman was already planting a foot behind his right leg, his arm coming up behind him and hooking around his neck. “Pathetic. You still aren’t even trying."

“Fuck you."

There was the sharp, shocking pain along his jugular vein and through his windpipe. Blood pouring out and air not reaching his lungs. And then blackness, like always.

Their lives never changed. Teufort never changed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Despite the fact that the fic is now shorter, there is new content here. Have a look at the notes at the beginning of fic for an explanation!

Seven minutes until the round ended. If no one stepped in to grab the intel, the round was going to go to RED. For all Spy cared, it might as well. He could lecture the enemy Sniper until his face was as blue as his suit but he felt the same damn way. Yet here he was, winding his way through the corridors of the RED base.

Confirming the his cloak was at full charge with a glance at his watch, he jumped and rolled past several crates to peer over the edge. There was one sentry ahead, but the Engineer wasn't manning it. So long as the laborer didn't catch on to his precious toy being disabled before it was fully down, this would be a quick grab.

He pulled his sapper out, tapping a leather-gloved finger over the meter to make sure it read properly. With it in one hand and Ambassador in the other he began his approach. The sentry whirred around, scanning but never confirming anyone in the area.

The first time he had done this is had been almost exhilerating. Just the sense of power in defeating these pesky contraptions that plagued the team was once a rewarding experience. Now it was mundane; just going through the motions.

The electrical pop signifying the sentry’s downfall made him jump, dragging his mind out of whatever hole it kept falling into. In his hand, the sapper had auto-stopped. The sentry fizzled, useless without its maker to fix it up. For a minute he just crouched there, feeling his thoughts start to tumble away from him again and not caring enough to go after them. Not caring enough to straighten his legs and stand, to push himself just that little bit more to the door not more than ten feet away where his goal sat. After all this, none of it mattered.

A deafening, booming sound rang in his ears before he even registered the impact.

Spy swore as he waited for his vision to recover from flashes of white, and his eyes followed the growing dark patch of red down the sleeve of his right arm. His revolver rested on the floor, right next to the now-limp hand that had been holding it. All use of the limb was gone, thanks to a gaping hole in his right shoulder. The Engineer wasn’t one for making these things quick. He took his damn tinkering too personally.

“You just don’t learn, do ya slick?" The casual Texan drawl came from over his right shoulder just before the sound of heavy boots hit the floor.

Spy chose not to turn around. “I’m not sure what you mean, laborer. I have a job to do, same as you."

Engineer gave a soft chuckle that was more cynical than humored. “Still, thought ya wouldn’t be too keen on comin’ back here so soon after your little stay the last time."

If he’d thought it would do any good, he would have flung his sapper at the bastard. “It would seem you misjudged your enemy, non? If you are expecting me to tuck tail and run, you’ll have to do far worse."

“That could be arranged.” Thump. Thump. Two footsteps on the wood floor, and the double barrels of the Texan’s shotgun pressed against his uninjured shoulder. “At this range, I'd just blow that toothpick of an arm clean off."

“Is that supposed to scare me?"

“Well now, I don’t see ya makin’ any moves to stop me, so I reckon it does."

“ _Mission ends in thirty seconds!_ ” The metallic echo of the Administrator’s voice marked his fate. No one knew for sure if the old woman was sitting and watching, somehow, or if the alerts were all pre-recorded.

Another light, scoffed short laugh came from the Engineer. “Well how ‘bout that, slick?"

Spy hissed under his breath. This was the last place he wanted to be. Injured and on the losing side, in the enemy base, when that cursed siren went off and his weapons were pulled back to Resupply without him. This was what he got though, coming right back into the hell in which he’d been kept for a week, to get a stupid briefcase he knew deep down held nothing relevant. Even the others on his team knew the Mann twins had no real idea what was going on in the Gravel Pit. They answered to the Administrator, and when he could be bothered to address them, Saxton Hale. It was as if they were being constantly prepared for something, but what?

“ _Ten… nine… eight…_ "

The barrel moved along his shoulder, up to the nape of his neck, and pushed against him with a rough shove. “You know, I could just leave ya right here. Not like you’re gonna be any trouble to us like that."

“ _…four …three …two..._ "

“That arm’ll bleed out eventually.”

“Just do it already!” he shouted, forgetting his pride.

“ _One!_ "

In that last second, the shotgun moved back just a hair, and Spy took his opening with a rough pivot to his left, throwing the sapper up in Engineer’s face to serve as a makeshift distraction. His left hand wasn’t his stronger hand of course, but a good spy always trains for these kinds of emergencies. Reaching into his jacket to grab his knife, his hope crumbled and settled like rubble in the pit of his gut. Gone. He wasn’t fast enough.

“ _You failed!_ "

Engineer’s boot slammed into his chest, knocking him back against the sentry. Hard metal met the back of his head where it struck the base of the disabled building. Spy winced, squinting up at the enemy.

"Ya know, stretch, for a minute there I was plannin' on making this go quick for ya." Engineer moved in, slamming the point of his shotgun against Spy's injured shoulder this time.

He clenched his teeth, determined not to let on that it hurt, but a choked moan made its way out of him when the Texan deliberately twisted the gun. The barrel pressed into the soft tissue at the exit wound.

"Almost felt sorry for ya. Hell, gotta be one awful experience the doc put you through."

That was too much. "I don't want your pity, laborer."

One thing he hated about Engineer was those goggles, always hiding the man's eyes. Spy could never get a good read on him. The slight sneer of a grin on his face had faltered, but the shadow of his worker’s helmet shielded his brow. “Good thing. I reckon Sniper’s coddling ya is enough.”

Common sense took a leave from him long enough to forget the gun pressed to his shoulder in his desire to strangle the man. Seeing red, he made to lunge forward.

Engineer pulled the trigger. Red went back to white. Blinding, searing white from the shock of another blast. Maybe he cried out as he fell right back into the sentry. His left hand flew to the wound. Mangled flesh and splinters of bone and shredded fabric hung in a bloody mess at his shoulder joint. As Engineer had promised, the arm was gone. Spy forced himself not to look where it had fallen; he’d rather not see the state it was in. It wasn’t the first time he’d lost a limb in battle, of course. There was no reason for it to be any more humiliating now than it was all those times before except for the fact that he’d been right; the Sniper was coddling him.

The Texan readied his shotgun again, pushing the double barrels to Spy’s forehead. His grin was gone now though, replaced with a thin-lipped frown. “Hit a sore spot, did I?”

Spy didn’t dare trust himself to reply. It was all he could do to fight back the involuntary watering of his eyes and grit his teeth as he kept his focus on the enemy, all the while feeling the blood gush over his hand. Dizziness was taking over and lessening the pain, and it would all be over before the adrenaline faded.

“Let me give ya a little advice, partner. If you don’t forget about all that stuff you read, Administration’s gonna have a problem with ya mighty fast.”

Engineer’s voice was distant now, with a sort of canned quality like the dull clatter of rain on a tin roof. His shape was losing definition and clarity, blurring and tilting in front of Spy. Soon.

“…how the Administrator takes care of her little problems,” the enemy was saying. “And now you know you’re expendable. Copies can be remade.”

Bile rose up from his stomach and burned the back of his throat. Was it the pain or those words? Searching what he could make out of the man, he still found no answers. The cold frown was still there, blurry but unchanging.

The shotgun went off.

* * *

Surreal.

That’s what it all was. And he was the one who’d developed half of this stuff. Well, to be more precise, his grandfather had laid out the blueprints for it. Dell had put it all into motion though, with Helen and Mann Co's funding, and an ample supply of Australium. The point being, if even he found it all to be hard to believe, he could only imagine what that BLU Spy was going through. This was why none of them were ever supposed to know. The ethical implications of using the Respawn to clone a select few of the mercenaries hired by the Mann brothers was troubling, but it was necessary. It was the only reliable way to keep the teams balanced while still falling under the radar of the brothers. The old fools had no real idea what was going on the Gravel Pit anymore. Not since the old Classic team retired. Some things just had to be done.

Despite his personal dislike for the BLU Spy, the day’s match had not been his proudest moment. Folks didn’t see his temper very often, but damn if that flowery Frenchman didn’t get under his skin. Dell did kind of feel sorry for the fellow, though. Not enough to neglect his job, of course.

What Dell wanted to know was how the cloned Spy had managed to get his hands on the files he found in the first place. Administration kept those under very tight lock and key, and only he and Medic had access. The doc could be a bit… eccentric, but Dell still found it hard to believe he'd been careless enough to leave personnel files just lying about.

Confident that the others were all otherwise occupied, he made his way to the communications room located not far from his workshop. Late evening was the ideal time to contact Helen. For one, trying to start a call with her during daytime would result in half his team scrambling to inquire about time off, or raises, or new equipment, and Dell didn’t always have the patience for that. For the other, his usual conversations with their employer were of a much more confidential nature. Even Medic was not privy to some of their exchanges.

With a heavy sigh, he pulled off his hardhat and goggles and flicked on the switch for the main monitor. Punching in a special code specific to him would let Helen know this was a private call. Then he just had to wait while the call went through.

"Evenin', ma'am," he greeted as the static gave way to color.

Helen - only called 'the Administrator' to her face - might have been attractive once, but the Conaghers had extended her life well past the natural limit. Her black hair was streaked with gray, and though she tried to paint herself up with violet and fuschia makeup, the sallow and aged appearance of her skin still showed through. It did not help that she smoked more than Spy.

"Yes. What is it, Mr. Conagher?" Helen peered at him with shrewd eyes through the camera. Dell was used to her mannerisms. She made a few of the younger mercs nervous at first, but over time most adjusted. She didn't like small talk though, and right now that was fine by him.

"Well now, I reckon before I explain every lil' detail, I oughta just find out what ya know." He flashed her a small smile, coy enough to be subtle but one she'd read through just the same. "Supposin' I told ya that enemy Spy spent a rather unpleasant couple of nights over yonder in Heilburg's lab? Y'all wouldn't know nothin' bout that, now would ya?"

"Something of that nature was reflected on the Leaderboards over two weeks ago. Why am I just now being briefed on it?" The Administrator folded her arms over the bare metal surface of her desk.

Dell chuckled, not letting her get to him. "S'pose I didn't get the chance. Lot goin' on here."

"Get to the point."

"Well the point bein', some rather, shall we say, sensitive files happened to be lyin' about. That BLU Spy found those just before he was captured." He paused, gauging her response.

She quirked an eyebrow. "The files were not secured, then?"

This was the tricky part. After all, getting Medic in trouble was not part of his plan, although if she wanted to have a word with him on going too far with his experiments, it couldn't hurt. "Didn't say that. The Spy knows how to pick locks, ma'am.” It wasn’t an outright lie, and would be enough of a deterant that she would let it slide. These word games were full of delicate tactics. "Now the problem is, the file he got his paws on just happened to be Janvier's. I reckon he got himself a good look at the cloning data."

It was difficult to discern through the poor picture quality, but he thought he caught a flicker of surprise in her stern face. "He is Aware now?" There was a low, threatening tone to her voice that he knew too well.

"'Fraid so," he said. He almost felt a bit reluctant to admit it. The BLU Spy would likely have to be destroyed and re-cloned. _Copies can be remade_. "I'd rather not have to reset the progress that the doc’s made, though. We’d have to rescan all of us, start fresh. And I don't think the Spy will be saying anything."

The screen flickered. "...Keep a close watch on the Spy clone, Mr. Conagher. I will be in touch. Do not act until I say so." Three more flickers across the viewer and a buzz, and then she was gone.

Dell stared up at the camera still pointing at him, considering the situation. He didn't like being played, and it felt an awful lot like there was something Helen wasn't telling him.

“I need a beer,” he muttered, and left the control room in the direction of the kitchen. He only made it about ten paces from the door, however.

“So, what did the Voice have to say?”

“God dang it,” Dell muttered. The smooth, deep voice would have been unmistakeable even without the French accent. “Can’t even trust my own Spy."

“Tragic, isn’t it?” The clicking sound of his colleague releasing his cloak was following by the slight hazy effect of shadows hitting the concealing fog as the Frenchman’s tall, slender form became was visible again. “You didn’t honestly expect me not to be doing my own research on all this, did you?"

“Naw, I s’pose I didn’t." He’d just hoped Spy would leave him alone about it until he’d had time to think. Not to mention after the day’s match with his clone, he wasn’t keen on seeing either of them for a bit.

“Luckily for you I just want to know one thing,” Spy continued, slipping a gloved hand inside the edge of his burgundy suit.

“And what might that be?” he sighed. Might as well humor the spook, if it would get him outta his hair. Metaphorically speaking. All the Conagher men went bald on top early; Dell shaved what was left.

He watched as the taller man plucked a cigarette from within the simple silver case held open in his hand. Dell had always thought the disguise kit was a rather clever and brilliant design. A disguise within a disguise, inside the gentleman’s cigarette case was the control panel for a self-contained hologram projection technology that altered the user to a near-flawless image of another.

“My file. Have you seen it as well then?” he said before tilting his head down to light the cigarette tucked between his lips.

Leave it to a Spy to pick the most loaded question possible. The man had more bodies buried than all of them combined, perhaps even Medic. It left untrusting of even his own teammates, and though he had made an effort over the years to bridge some of that, the man always stood apart from them.

Yes, Dell had seen it. He worked on Respawn, he kept the thing running. Sometimes he needed details that ran more on the biological spectrum of science. One thing was for sure: even he couldn’t risk lying to a Spy.

“I’ve seen parts of it, yeah. Nothin’ personal, mind ya. Just some science data, stuff the doc needs me to plug into Respawn."

Spy’s expression didn’t change, but that didn’t mean much. The two had once been stuck in a three-hour poker game until Dell folded only to find the Frenchman’s last hand was nothing but a lousy pair of twos. He let a cloud of sharp gray wisps drift past his thin lips before speaking at last. “I would be interested to know what you deem ‘personal’, Monsieur Conagher.”  

“Spy, don’t start in on this.” Dell let out a tired sigh, dropping to a resigned stance. He’d found the more relaxed he acted around his teammate, the less on edge Spy tended to be. An interesting paradox, considering the trust required to let one’s guard down against a man like Spy when he wasn’t on the defensive, never mind how he could be if he thought he was cornered. "Ya know I keep to my own business, I ain’t one to gossip. Even if I did see something, long as the two of us are doin’ our jobs, I don’t rightly care."

The older man raised his eyebrows, his slate blue eyes unblinking. He was picking apart every word Dell had just said, and Dell wondered if Spy knew just how much more straightforward he was with him than any of the other mercenaries. Would he appreciate it even if he did? “I see. What if such knowledge were to put you in danger?”

Now Dell felt his muscles tensing again. “That a concern or a threat?"

“What if it is both?” he replied.

The response was so quick that it raised the hairs on Dell’s arms and back. For one thing, no one had ever heard the man so much as hinted he cared about anyone. He’d never been fooled himself, even if the others took all the things he tried to do for granted, but the fact that he even implied such a thing now threw him off guard.

“I have enemies, mon ami,” he said. His brow lowered to the usual glare, but his voice remained soft, and there was a strange melancholy to it. "The less you know about me, the better it is for all of us. I do not intend to remain under Mann Co’s thumb forever, after all.”

Dell never found his voice in time to respond before Spy slunk off in the opposite direction of the commons, back towards his smoking room and the brooding solace it provided. Funny thing was, he’d never stopped to think the Frenchman might even be more miserable than the rest of their lot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Hints of same-faction Napoleon Complex? Scandalous, I know.
> 
> I think I'm finally back on track guys! Thanks for sticking around and all your support!

"If I hafta listen te ye moanin' about the heat fer another bloody minute lad, I gonnae wring yer neck! We're _all_ hot, ye git!" The shout coming from down the hall in the common area carried Demo's unmistakeable accent.

"Oh yeah? Screw you, man! None of you assholes does half the runnin' around that I do!" a higher pitched whining voice that could only belong to Scout snapped back.

Mick cringed at the mere thought of participating in the argument. He was an Ozzie, and not one of those simpering city blokes from Melbourne who wouldn’t last an hour in the bush. Listening to his colleagues whine about the current heat wave was not high on his list of priorities. More coffee was. He could just forget it, wait and come back. He sighed, turning the empty can in his hand. Everyone ignored him. That was fine by him. Attempts to socialize for him were always fumbled and awkward disasters that he had to spend the next two days trying not to think about. Wouldn't be anything to just walk right by the others and back out to the safety of his camper.

With a nod to no one save himself and a gruff grunt, Mick continued on to the commons. They were made up of three adjoining rooms, the first being a large lounge room complete with a couple tables for cards or other games, as well as a pool table, a dart board, and a television Engie had rebuilt to improve reception and picture quality. The kitchen and dining hall branched off of that. There was no way to reach them without passing through the lounge, and someone was _always_ in there. Which meant Mick rarely was.

Mick found Demo seated at one of the tables, a bottle of whiskey nearby but still sober. He sometimes wondered what the Scotsman would think of his father's moonshine. If anyone could handle that stuff it was him.

"Ach, told ye, we're all workin' up a sweat ou' there! Dunnae get on like ye be the only real mercenary here," Demo said, not looking up as Mick entered. He was leafing through the latest Mann Co catalogue Miss Pauling had sent them.

"Snipes!" Scout was kneeling backwards on the tattered old sofa in front of the tele, arms hung over the back of it and swinging a bit. He perked up when he saw his teammate. So much for slipping past.

He offered them both a curt nod, hoping they'd just let him go.

"Hey, how's it been up in your stupid nest, campin' out all relaxed in the shade while _some of us_ gotta run around in the sun?" the runner said. His tone was half resentment, half his usual blunt and obnoxious self. For the most part he was well-meaning and harmless, sometimes even fun, but Mick wasn't in the mood.

Demo rolled his good eye back deliberately enough to back up for the lack of the other. "Ignore him."

"I intend to," Mick grumbled, peeling his glare off the Bostonian.

In truth he'd been ready to retort, giving Scout a concise description of his nest; air dry, stagnant, and filled with dust. The wood structure baked under the sun, creating an oven he sometimes imagined going up in flames. The heat just brought out the stench of stale coffee and a hint of his own piss, which made him glad his sense of smell had never been that great.

Scout got to move around, air himself out and grab a drink of something cold. He didn't have to sit motionless, squinting against the sun and fighting every itch. There were days he didn't dare wipe the sweat dripping down his brow lest it distract him from the scope of his rifle.

The noisy runner was still rambling on about something Mick hadn't caught a word of when he headed off to the adjacent kitchen. Thanks to the continued efforts of their diligent Engineer, the kitchen remained well-stocked with a decent variety of foods. It was rather impressive to find fruit and vegetables in the living area of nine dysfunctional mercenary men, after all. All Mick cared about was the large communal can of coffee grounds in the cabinet though.

As he grabbed the tin and pulled off the top to start scooping some into his own can, he heard the faint fall of boots on the floor behind him.

"Ye been actin' odd, Sniper. Odd even fer you. What be swimmin' about that head of yers, hm?" Demo strolled over to the counter and turned to prop himself against it backwards.

For a moment Mick didn't respond, keeping his focus on the coffee. "Nothin's wrong, mate. Just getting bloody sick of bein' asked that," he said at last, his tone indifferent.

Demo continued to lean with his elbows and back against the counter. He fixed his one eye on the ground, frowning as he seemed to churn things around in his mind. Mick was the first to admit he was lousy at reading others, but he knew the look. It was the expression of someone trying to decide if they were going to say something.

"Listen, Sniper. I know better than any of us, mixin' with the enemy is a daft move."

Mick's hand tensed with the rest of him, fumbling his task and spilling coffee on the counter. "Dunno what that's got to do with me," he managed through gritted teeth.

He probably ought to just leave. He had raided enough to get him through for the week. Despite the sad regret evident in the Scotsman's tone, fight or flight was switched on, and he was better at both than trying to negotiate a conversation. Of course he knew where this was going. They all knew what had happened when Demo and the BLU Soldier had struck up a bond, but the Scott never talked about it.

"Ye felt sorry for him, I dunnae blame ye," Demo said. He either hadn't noticed Mick's strained mannerisms or he was unfazed by it. "Doc's got a few dozen screws lose an' that be puttin' it lightly. But ye did yer good Samaritan bit, now ye got te forget it."

"Mind your own bloody business, ya wanker!" he snapped, slamming the lid back on the coffee can.

Demo didn't flinch back at the abrupt reply. There wasn't even much in the way of surprise in his expression. He watched with genuine worry as Mick fumbled with the coffee pots, but he didn't say another word.

Anxious to get out from under the one-eyed stare of a nosey teammate, Mick didn't bother with more than a swipe of his hand to clean the counter before storming out.

Scout had sprawled himself out across the length of the entire sofa, arms above his head and bouncing his baseball off the ceiling. "Yo, where you goin' Snipes?" he called, tilting his head back.

"Bugger off."

He could hear Scout griping halfway down the hall. "What the fu-- Yeah okay be an asshole, whatever. Geez..."

So they'd noticed. Of course they'd noticed. Spy warned him they would. Hell, both Spies had. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the faint knowledge that he was going to feel bad for barking at his teammates like that. Especially Demo. The Scout had an attention span of twenty minutes at best, and since he'd apparently grown up with seven older brothers, he forgot this sort of thing even faster than he could run. The Scotsman was quite a different story. Sometimes the guy just seemed lonely, like all he wanted to do was have someone stick around and talk to him. Which made Mick a real sorry piker for shouting at the poor bloke when it came down to it.

Damn it he was pissed, if only at himself. Now Mick was the bloody village idiot, getting all these stupid feelings. Sympathy for an enemy, a clone at that, one that'd just be destroyed someday. The one who made it his business to harass him, who had made it clear he didn't want his sympathy. He was better than this. It had to stop.

It was going to stop.

 

 

* * *

 

The sound of mechanical tools whirred from just inside. The early afternoon was already burning hot, and the Engineer had left the overhead door up while he worked. Country music, with all its characteristic twangs and tired notes, moaned out of the speakers on an old AM radio. It sounded flat and a bit canned with the shop's poor acoustics and a decrepit radio, but Engie was humming right along.

Cloak in place, René eased himself into the workshop. Outside of himself, his stocky, good-natured teammate was perhaps the most observant man he'd ever worked with. He had to be. After all, on the battlefield spies were the bane of engineers.

Whenever René moved, he needed to watch for the slightest anomaly in his environment, any tangible thing on which he could have an effect and thus reveal himself. Engie's cheery demeanor could drop even faster than Medic's wild, sporadic mood swings. René should have stayed out, but he couldn't help himself.

Engie's shop was the perfect juxtaposition to Medic's laboratory. Though the Texan worked with engine grease and oil and general dirt and grime, he was an absolute stickler for organization. His workspace was off limits to everyone else on the team. Entering when he was there put him a real nasty temper. When he wasn't there, snooping was a good way to volunteer for an unscheduled test of the Respawn system.

Naturally, René had snuck in a few times, boredom and curiosity being his unbeatable vices. He'd known from the second he stepped in that first time that he'd met his match. And that thrilled him. The challenge had brought him back to the workshop a dozen times.

He'd been caught before. The broken fingers that Medic had patched up while rolling his eyes were worth it.

René had seen the laborer's blueprints, watched his brilliant, methodical mind build things from scratch. He had watched him late into night, scrawling notes on his designs, sometimes losing himself in a bit of a frustrated flurry. René could not begin to find a flaw in some of the things the man discarded. Dell Conagher was a genius, but unlike most of their team, he was also sane.

Which was what brought René here.

Medic had his file. He'd forced himself to come to terms with that. The man was a lunatic, and most people on the team would take anything he let slip with a grain of salt. But the Engineer was as intelligent as Medic and as clever as René. No one had informed him that he had access to the files, yet he should have figured it out. He'd been lax to allow it to slip by him.

Engie had quit humming and was singing outright along with the radio now. His voice was surprisingly pleasant as it harmonized along with the warm undertones of Roger Miller's tenor notes.

To say he rather enjoyed standing there listening to his colleague drawl on about living on the road would not be an inaccurate assessment. He could almost let himself get comfortable. Almost.

Without a cigarette between his lips, he caught his teeth grinding and his fingertips twitching. Little ticks that undermined his sense of control.

As if on cue, a strange little smirk touched the corners of Engie's mouth as he sang, " _No pool, no pets, I ain't got no cigarettes_.” The Texan was looking in his direction. That wasn't possible though. Just a well-timed coincidence was all.

A hand clad in a yellow working glove lifted up above Engie's head where he crouched and flipped off the radio. "Show's over. Ya wanna talk like a man, turn that dang cloak off and do it."

René gulped. _How?_ Too flabbergasted to argue, he moved his hand to the switch on his watch and disengaged the cloak. With the sun to his back, he could see his long thin shadow come into view and stretch inwards almost to the back of the garage.

"How did you-?"

Engie cut him off with a short laugh. "You're gettin' predictable. That, and ya bumped that there screw on the floor behind ya walkin' in."

A quick twist at the hips and a glance at the floor confirmed there was a small metal screw on the cement floor. "Merde."

"You’re in luck, I'm in a good mood." Engie pulled his hardhat off, followed by his goggles. Grabbing a rag blotched with smears of grease, he wiped the excess sweat from his brow and tossed it back to the table by the radio. "Ya want a beer?" he asked, approaching his small fridge in the corner.

Nothing stung René more than getting caught. Spies had their pride to keep in mind. Now to make it worse, everything he thought he knew about the man he was studying was being turned on its head. He was supposed to be staring up the double barrel of a shotgun that was usually reserved for his BLU counterpart. The reward for getting caught was another sickening trip through Respawn, not a... beer?

"Oui, I suppose," he heard himself say at length. At least it sounded like him, but he was not really a beer drinker, and all his training and experience told him this should be a trap.

Engie did seem to be in a good mood though. He kicked one foot behind him to close the door to the icebox closed before strolling back in René’s direction, and there was nothing threatening in his demeanor at all. "Ya know, this here generator might just fix the energy inefficiency 'round here," he said. He was carrying a beer in each hand, so he jerked his head in the direction of the machine he'd been working on.

"So then, we might go a whole night without the power going out across half the base because our good docteur is trying to jump-start a corpse?"

The shorter man had one of those laughs that could put someone at ease or unsettle them with just the slightest change in pitch. René's comment earned him a hearty chuckle that did the former, and he accepted the beer he was offered. Beads of condensation had already started to cover the surface, and he felt the cold moisture press into his hand through his thin gloves.

"That's the doc for ya," Engie said with a shake of his head. "We'd all be put out to pasture by now without him though."

"Hmph." René was not about to acknowledge that with a more committed reply. Even if it was true.

For several seconds he watched the other man as he tugged the glove off his mechanical hand and used it open his beer. After taking a long guzzle from it, followed by a satisfied gasp, he quirked an eyebrow at René. "Want me to get that for ya?"

Of course he wouldn't have a bottle opener. No point with that hand of his. René held the drink back out. "Oui. Merci."

Once opened, he took a small swallow, wishing it were brandy or wine. This was all so strange. He didn't know how much longer he could play along, and there was no doubt in his mind that the Engineer knew it. He was using a spy's ability to read people and manipulate a situation against him just by acting as unlike himself as possible.

"So, what on earth possessed ya to come snoopin' around in broad daylight while I'm workin'?" Engie asked just as René was taking another drink.

He choked once, swallowed hard several times while blinking back the sting in his eyes, and finally met the other man's sharp blue eyes. Engie had rather attractive eyes, but they always looked too small after seeing him with his goggles down so much. Worse than Sniper and his stupid tinted aviators.

"I intended to talk. I suppose I was assessing the atmosphere first."

"Whether or not I'd blow yer head off, ya mean." Engie wasn't one for pulling punches.

"Something like that."

Engie studied him for almost a full minute, and any clues as to his feelings about the situation were scant. Now René was the one being studied and that was a feeling he would never grow comfortable with. Not that it was possible to be comfortable right now in this weather, no matter where he was. Though the Texas born-and-raised Engineer across from him didn't seem to care that he had to keep wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, René was sweltering. The sun beat hard on his shoulders and he knew the burgundy silk back of his waistcoat would be hot to the touch. Nerves and tension made what was already uncomfortable unbearable, and he had to fight with all his will not to let it show.

Without warning, Engie broke the quiet. He held on to his drink with his left hand and used the Gunslinger to drag over a short stool. "All right, Spy. I owe ya that. Talk away."

Yet another unexpected development. Proceed with caution, his instincts told him. Despite the fact that the other man was not only a half-foot shorter than him but now seated as well, René felt like Engie still had the upper hand. He was the little boy in boarding school all over again, standing in the headmaster's office half-expecting to get the belt. Granted that wouldn't have to be an unenjoyable experience in entirely different circumstances. The Engineer had a certain rough handsomeness to him. He'd clean up nicely, without question, yet for all the fuss he made about cleanliness, René almost liked him just like this. But spies were paid to observe, not ogle, and if he  was being honest with himself this was the latter.

"Ya gonna stare or talk, son?"

"Apologies, mon ami, I..." René stopped, quirking a curious eyebrow at him when the man's words finished registering. "'Son'?"

Engie offered a sheepish scoff. "Sorry. Force of habit, I'm afraid."

There was something almost charming about the way his round cheeks flushed in the heat and slight embarrassment. Even his face was a unique combination, with a strong square jaw and a hint of stubble somehow fitting together with his cheery chubby cheeks and hairless head. He was the simplest and most complex mercenary on the team, a true marvel of a man.

In that moment, all the questions and thinly veiled threats René had formulated regarding Engie's role there and his file slipped away. There was no way to regain control or the upper hand that way. Engie knew too much about him, more than he had a right to. Much more than René knew about him. The easiest way to even this playing field was to do exactly what he was trained to do: observe, investigate, pry, learn, analyze,  _spy_. He was going to get to know Dell Conagher better than the man knew himself.

With that newfound purpose, René took a long swallow of his beer. "Actually, tell me more about this generator of yours. I am curious."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drama and overuse of the 'grabbed and kissed' trope. Spoiler: this is gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I'm sorry this is unnacceptably overdue. But hey, I'm still faster than the comic updates, amirite fam??? hahaha hah h a :|
> 
> Anyway this one's too long (1.4k words longer than the previous chapters) and a touch melodramatic in parts but hopefully you will enjoy it anyway.

One of the most overlooked hazards of being a spy was in the simple gathering of intel on a subject. There was always the risk that you might start to like your target, or even care about them. If the stigma René had come to represent to his teammates painted him a callous and cold bastard, it was because he had to be. He had a couple who were exceptions to the rules, and even those troubled him at times. The agent who lived did so by learning how to cut any emotional ties. Like a pull in a favorite sweater, tucking the loose thread back under was a simple enough matter. In time the garment would unravel, but for the moment it held together.

René’s plan to study the Engineer was backfiring in much the same way. 

He should have known better. Engie was always in control. No one else on the team was quite like him. Good-natured and reasonably patient, he had a way of handling things that kept even a Spy guessing as to his motives. But René had seen that friendly disposition sour, and the more time he spent with him, the more he realized how much he'd underestimated him. A glorified mechanic, that was what he’d called him once. Everyone made some stupid mistakes in life, but that massive oversight was inexcusable from one of his profession. 

“There, that oughta stop you damn Spies from sappin’ these so easy!” Engie pipped, standing up with a grimace from where he’d been crouched with his neck twisted at an awkward angle to work on his newest sentry upgrades.

The corner of René’s eye twitched. Though the other man had been tolerating his frequent presence these last few days, he was fond of dropping bait in the water between them. 

“You do realize that is my job? And that my role as team support relies on me getting these blasted things down before they pummel the rest of you back to Resupply?” René said. His jaw was too tense.

“Gettin’ touchy there, stretch?” 

“Hmph.” It hadn’t been more than a half-hour since he’d put out his cigarette, but his nerves were a bit short. Dependencies always grew that way. With a resigned sigh he fished out another smoke, keeping his eyes on the other man.

Engie was stretching his back, rubbing his hand over the lower left side. 

“Did you break something?” he asked, a touch sarcastic. “I can call the Medic.”

Engie scoffed. “Nothin’ the Doc can fix. Short and plump just don’t do this spine any favors."

“Oh I don’t know. You could be in worse shape.” 

Engie shot him a mild glare. At this rate, his remarks were going to get him kicked out of the workshop. Although if the other man analyzed the comment, he might have caught on to René's appraising tone. “And here I thought you were s'posed to be the charmin' one."

As stubborn as he was, René had to allow a smirk for that remark. “Oh, I am. When I need to be, I can be very charming."

An oil-smudged hand reached up to tug off those troublesome goggles. Was he leveling the playing field, or throwing René off further? Damn but the man was impossible to read. "Prove it."

René lifted his eyebrows, the only hint of his intrigue that he allowed show through. He was drawn to many things, but as much as it irritated him, curiosity was his aphrodisiac. Of course his teammates were off limits for many reasons, but he had never given the bald, chubby, ‘good old boy’ from Texas more than a passing glance. Perhaps the sun had just been blinding him for the past four years.

"'Prove it'?" he echoed. The cigarette dangled on his lips, still unlit.

"Convince me ya keep hoverin' around me for any damn reason other than ya think you can somehow trip me up and get me to tell ya more than I'm supposed to." 

"That is part of it," he said with a tight nod. "Or at least, I hoped to determine how much of a threat you pose."

"I wasn't plannin' on posin' one, but that can be changed." Engie's voice was low and easy like always, but the challenge was still there, like flecks of dust trapped in a photo frame behind the glass.

Engie had a mean streak if someone pushed him past a certain point. Being the polite sort, he always gave a warning. This was René's warning. If he didn't stop provoking him, he'd be walking out of Resupply with a familiar headache. There was something so raw and almost exciting about Engie's aggressive side though. Perhaps enough to be worth that trip.

René forced his expression to remain indifferent. "Are threats supposed to make me more agreeable?"

"It ain't a damn threat, Spy." Engie's eyes were sharper than his favorite knife. "I'm the one who oughta be disagreeable."

With a sigh, René clicked the wheel of his lighter and held the flame to his cigarette. "And why is that?" he asked, voice muffled from the way he curled his lips around the end. 

Somewhere outside, past the yard behind Engie's workshop, Soldier's loud, grating shout could be heard. No doubt he'd roped someone into 'training' before dinner. 

"Well for one, you're in my way," he said, shooing René aside as he moved to grab another wrench, despite having five lying around already. "Another, you're bein' a hypocritical sonofabitch. Don't even bother tryin' to tell me you ain't been through all our files."

René shrugged, leaning back against the wall out of the shorter man's path. "I made no such claim."

Engie tossed his wrench onto a workbench and turned back, suddenly much closer than René had realized. "I didn't ask to see your file. It was handed to me, along with all the others." He stepped forward again. 

As he peered up from the embers coming to life under the flame of his lighter, René froze. Something had changed in Engie's demeanor. The cues were subtle, but they were there, shifting and growing with every back and forth jab they'd been trading. Heat radiated off of him. It was dangerous, agonizing. Electric. The garage was already an oven. Pinned in close quarters with a man he was fast becoming aware of an inconvenient, frustrated attraction to was not René's ideal situation. 

"You're not the only one here with secrets," Engie continued, "and it might just blow your self-centered goddamn mind but ya don't know as much as ya think. So why don't you take this 'best pals' act down about a hundred notches and let me get back to my job, or convince me ya plan to do somethin' aside from givin' me a headache?"

René swallowed. Maybe, just this once, he could risk being honest. "I suppose you would not believe me if I told you I have come to find that I enjoy your company."

He expected a strike to the jaw. Instead Engie's voice took on a rough, predatory quality. "Fella could take a comment like that a few ways, slick."

"Indeed."

A hand snatched his tie. The strength of that iron grip was too often forgotten under the yellow glove that covered the Gunslinger. Engie yanked René down by his tie until their faces were as level as possible. "That mean it's open to interpretation?"

That was his chance to shut this down. He didn't take it. He didn't want to take it.

"As you like," René breathed. 

Engie pulled the tie toward him one more time, just enough to throw René off balance so he toppled forward. Their faces brushed. René noted that he was given just enough leeway to pull back.

The kiss was rough and assertive; there was nothing romantic about it at all. Lips could form words all they liked, but a kiss spoke volumes when done right. As the biggest surprise Engie had sprung on him yet, the Texan knew how to do them very well.

Despite the significant height difference, René was pushed back into the walls of the shed. Four layers of expensive suit and silk and undershirt shielded him from the burn of hot metal, but left him slow-cooking like a cornish hen in a crock pot. Not the ideal situation for a heated kiss, but René's body was responding just the same. Or perhaps even more so from the frustration of clothing clinging to sweaty skin. 

Engie seemed unaffected by the temperature. He kept him pinned with his mechanical hand gripping his hip. The other wandered a bit, running along René's side and back, pressing to get a feel for the shape underneath. Time lacked meaning, as it always did in moments of passion, feeling somehow both longer and shorter than it was. He was suspended in the air, and when Engie's hands dropped, the world rushed back to collide with René at the end of his fall.

"Merde..."

"Well, I don't have a bloody lip."

"If I had decided to protest, you would have far worse problems than that," René managed.

The Texan gave a vague shake of his head and moved away. Once he began tidying a few areas in his shop seconds later, René began to realize that was all he was getting from him. Was he toying with him?

"Got a meeting with the Doc," Engie said at length. "Y'all better find somthin' to do with yourself, 'cause you ain't lurkin' 'round here while I'm out."

He couldn't be serious. The last time he was at a loss for words was lost to memory, but nothing would come to his lips. The bastard was just playing him, getting him all worked up and confused, and he'd fallen for it like an amateur.

As Engie gathered some blueprints up, he paused and turned back to René. "Tell ya what. You decide ya wanna continue this conversation later, you know where I'll be."

* * *

Come Monday, the enemy Sniper was back on his game, better than ever. He'd sent Spy through Respawn three times already, and although the water tower was a treacherous climb for a man in a suit and dress shoes, a more personal confrontation was in order.

Another crack and the rifle went off as he crept up behind him. "Ha! This is gettin' embarrassin'! Ya wankers aren't even tryin'!" Spy focused his eyes over the man's hunched shoulders in time to see his team's Demoman fall. He needed to act.

Knife in hand, Spy flipped the blade guard back in a single fluid movement. The weapon was just an extension of the gloved hand that held it. It didn't make a sound. The floorboards were worn and blistering with heat like everything in this hell, but they didn't creak under his footsteps. He knew how to adjust to the surface beneath his feet, how to shift his weight back or roll it forward before a noise was triggered. 

His balisong was poised and ready to strike. Without so much as a twitch from the bushman, it should have been easy. He was cloaked, he was silent. The sharpshooter's attention was focused elsewhere. He hadn't even smoked all damn morning. Nothing should have alerted his enemy. But when he moved his last step forward, Sniper whipped around. 

The enemy's rifle swung back in an arc, cracking against Spy's right forearm hard enough to momentarily stun his arm and cause him to lose hold of his knife. The balisong propelled away, spinning through the air and off to his right before stabbing straight down into the wood floor.

"Gotcha!" Sniper snarled. 

His teeth were bared as if he meant to grin, but the expression didn't convey any smug amusement with it. With a gruff grunt he dropped his rifle and drew his long, curved knife. It was more of a short sword, and far less pleasant than a headshot. At least when Spy backstabbed his enemies, he went straight for the nerves in the spinal cord.

He stumbled back before his rival could cut him in half. Then he began to move around, side stepping in a wide circle towards his knife. "Well, look who's decided to pay attention again, finally," he managed, his chest heaving harder than he cared to admit.

Behind his amber-tinted aviators, Sniper's eyes traced the path he had to follow to get his knife back. "M'not losin' my job for a bloody clone. Especially not an ungrateful mongrel like you!"

For a fraction of a second, Spy faltered. His heart slammed to a stop only to jump start itself into a burst of palpitations trying to catch up. He remembered his poker face too late, letting his mouth hang open like a buffoon's. 

"I don't see what I should have to be grateful for, especially not concerning you," he said. The retort had taken too long.

Light from outside  leaked into the roof opening and glinted off the metal of the kukri as Sniper flipped it about. "'Course ya don't, you're a narcissistic prick."

Two days ago, the blue-green eyes that were narrowed on him now had been overflowing with concern for his welfare, but he'd rejected it. Now it was gone, just as he'd asked for. Sniper had replaced it with the older, more familiar untrusting glare.

He chanced a rapid shift of his gaze to his knife and back again. 

Sniper took that as his time to move. The gangly bushman threw himself at him, kukri slashing. It caught his suit and cut clean through every layer cloth to slice a shallow line under his left pectoral. Another swing missed by a hair, but it had Spy backing up against the wall. 

"Not puttin' up much of a fight, are ya?" Sniper split the air with his blade a few times, trying to goad him.

"I see you've regained the eagerness for your job. It is only proper to give you a victory to celebrate," Spy said, but his breathing came in short huffs. There was a tight knot in his stomach and an ache in his chest. He just wanted to run.

The Australian snorted at his excuse, breaking into a light, airy laugh. "You really are an ass, ya know that?"

"Oui, I am well aware."

The distance between them was was gone when he blinked. The kukri lashed upward, stopping at the exact point where the sharpened edge first brushed the fabric of his balaclava. Spy felt a few threads of the flexible lycra snap back, acting as a reminder of how sharp that blade was kept. He swallowed and pressed his lips into a thin line.

"To think I let a snake like you distract me. Bloody unprofessional," Sniper growled, his voice low and rumbling. The deep, gravelly hitch to his tone made Spy's muscles go weak, and the prickling sensation of hair raising under his clothes swept across his arms and neck. His face was so close Spy could almost taste the stale coffee on his breath. "I won't be made the laughing stock of my whole team. You ain't worth it, mate."

So that was it. RED was taking notice of Sniper's lapse in kills, hence the plague of headshots he'd been subjected to. The Engineer had no doubt said something to him as well, yet somehow Sniper's words stung even more than his. Perhaps the two of them had devised this plan to taunt their adversary, sneering down at him like he was an ant under a microscope. His two biggest rivals seemed intent on bruising him with the knowledge they now knew he had.

"'Copies can be remade'," he heard himself quote the Engineer. There was no real venom left. All he could muster in its place was cold bitterness. "Isn't that what you're thinking?"

"I'd say this was nothin' personal, but ya made it personal a long time ago."

As the blade cut through the rest of his mask, causing the edges to curl and stretch away from exposed skin, something clicked in him. He remembered his body wasn't paralyzed, he could still fight back. Spy's hand shot up to grab Sniper's wrist. A heartbeat too late. The kukri's edge sliced through his jugular vein before his choked "Stop!" had finished leaving his lips. 

Maybe tears sprang to his eyes, or maybe the blurred vision was just the fading from consciousness, as blood and air were lost. He tried to keep Sniper in his sight as long as he could, tried to find some hidden information in a cold hard stare behind obscuring sunglasses. Then somehow the bushman was getting taller. Spy's body was sliding down along the wall, only he couldn’t feel it.

"I reckon you're gonna get real used to lookin' up at me," Sniper told him right before he blacked out.

The post-respawn combination of nausea and pain, a sensation so morbidly familiar that it was almost mundane, took over after that. Stumbling towards a supply cabinet, Spy gripped the corner of it to hold himself up until the dizziness subsided. 

Before now, it had been tucked in the back of his mind that he had someone to go to. Stubbornness and pride kept him from taking that option, even made him push it away. But it had been there, serving as a comforting last resort. He hadn't known just how much that safety net had mattered. Now he was alone, with nothing to break his fall.

Spy spent the rest of the day avoiding the battles. He couldn’t bring himself to care about the scores anymore. All he wanted was to see Sniper, to tell him he was sorry for lashing out. That was too little, too late. But there was always the next best thing, and he needed only to wait for nightfall.

No one ever slept normal hours with the lifestyle the mercenaries lead, but for someone who appeared to live off of coffee and beef jerky, the BLU Sniper settled in rather early most nights. Perhaps it was his loner nature that caused him to retreat to his room even when the others were still about in the commons, playing their card games and telling ridiculous stories. While he didn't use his camper nearly as much as his counterpart, he still seemed to prefer solitude. Sniper had little interest in the antics of the others. He might join in a game of Poker or Blackjack now and again, but that was the extent of his socializing. That, at least, Spy could relate to.

Before Spy could tell himself this was a stupider idea than trying to go back to the RED Sniper himself, he was already knocking on his teammate's door. A sliver of dim light shone under the edge, out over the cement floors.

“Yeah?"

Spy cleared his throat. “Would you mind some company, mon ami?"

There was a brief pause, and then the familiar voice called, “S’unlocked."

No sooner had he strolled in and closed the door behind him than his heart started beating a bit faster. Unobstructed by the sunglasses he wore almost all the time, Sniper’s greenish eyes leveled on him. He was sprawled out on his bed with just his undershirt and pants, vest and shirt discarded on the chair nearby. Mud-caked lowrise boots were tossed under it. A copy of the Mann Co Rifles fall '70 catalog was held in his rugged hands.

“Ya feelin’ alright, mate?” He quirked an eyebrow, rubbing at the day-old stubble on his long jawline. “I can’t remember the last time ya actually wanted ‘company’, let alone from me.” Sniper accompanied the statement with a small smirk to show there were no hard feelings.

A light shrug was his initial answer as he tried to formulate an excuse for his presence there. “I just prefer the companionship of those who have a healthy respect for peace and quiet."

Sniper chuckled, swinging his long legs off the edge of the bed so he could sit up on the side. “Ya don’t find much of that around here, that’s for sure.” Peering at him for a few long moments, the marksman's expression sombered. "Spy, look, we've all... been worried about ya. I'm glad you're here."

"More of this? I would be much better if my teammates could simply let the matter be. I wish to leave it behind me." Spy stepped across the room, but there wasn't anywhere to sit without moving the marksman's clothes. With a sigh, he leaned up against the wall instead. To his side was pinned a large, tacky poster for some rock and roll band.

"Wot happened in there, though? All any of us knows is their psycho doctor kept ya like some kinda lab rat."

Spy held out his kit and counted his cigarettes. Four left, and the next shipment was three days away. Damn him for forgetting to turn in his requisition last time. How could he have been so careless? After some consideration, he plucked one from the case and lit it. 

"Oui. He did." He flicked the gold lid of his lighter closed and tucked it away.

"Fuckin' sick bastard," Sniper muttered. "...Did he hurt ya?"

As smoke filled his throat and flowed up through his nostrils, it soothed him. "What kind of idiotic question is that? It did not feel good, that is for sure."

"I... Sorry. I just don't see how Administration is lettin' this go." Sniper's eyes were the same, stunning blue-green as his RED counterpart's, yet something was missing from them.

"I have asked that it not be reported," he lied. Even if he had a weapon in the truth, he wouldn't wish this existential crisis on anyone, nor the danger the knowledge brought with it.

The Australian's jaw dropped, making his long face even more dramatic. "Are ya crazy? He kept ya prisoner! It's bloody torture!" 

Spy pushed off the wall and closed the distance between them in a heartbeat. A gloved hand on each of the lanky man's shoulders held his weight so he could lean his face in just a few inches from Sniper's. "You bushmen are so annoying. You think I'm some weak kitten who needs your protection. Why is that?"

"W-wot are ya on about, Spy?" Sniper twisted his mouth to the side. "You're my teammate, for fuck's sake! Course I care about ya!"

"And if I were not...?" he pressed, leaning closer, breathing in the man's scent. Even his smell was different.

The other man pulled his head back a bit but otherwise held still. "If ya weren't wot?"

"Your colleague. What then?"

"Wot are ya gettin' at, mate?" His tone was leery, but Spy suspected he knew very well. 

He took his chin in one hand. "This." 

Spy made his move. The bushman's lips were rough and a bit chapped, but not unpleasantly so. With his right hand he kept Sniper's jaw in place, using his left hand to support himself while also kneading his fingers along the other's shoulder. 

Pausing, he tilted his head back just enough to look into his eyes. They _looked_ the same, yet the sensation he was hoping for - that tingling in his very core - wasn't there. Maybe it wasn't enough. He nipped at Sniper's lower lip, earning a light gasp from the man. He took the opportunity to meld their mouths together again and slid his tongue across the surprised marksman's lip with an encouraging moan. Something still didn't feel like it should have. 

Closer. He had to be closer. Lifting his left leg he propped his knee to the side of Sniper. At that the other man snapped to his senses. A pair of large hands slammed against his chest and shoved him back.

"What the fuck's gotten into ya?!" Wide eyes met his, confused and angered in equal measure.

Still steadying himself from the throwback, Spy brushed off the front of his suit. "Just an experiment, mon ami. No reason to get all worked up."

Sniper stared for several seconds before giving a slow shake of his head. "I dunno what's goin' on with ya, Spook, but I'm--"

"Don't call me that."

"I always call ya that," Sniper protested. The puzzled twist of his brow intensified.

"Well stop it." This hadn't been fair to do to his colleague. Though they hadn't ever been close, Sniper was a good man and he didn't deserve to be used like this. But he couldn't tell him the reason for it. "I... apologize, mon ami. I suppose you are right, that I have not been myself."

Long fingers combed through ruddy brown hair and then Sniper dropped his hand back in his lap. "Bloody right ya haven't."

Spy conceded with a nod. "I don't suppose you could simply forget this evening?" His tugged on the hem of his jacket to straighten it out.

"...Spy, I..." The Australian stood, moving over to stand in front of him. "Just tell me wot that was about, would ya?"

"It's complicated. I was just... testing something. Do not worry about it, s'il vous plait." Spy took a step backwards. "I should be leaving. I am sorry for this." He had to get out of here, away from this man who looked so much like his rival. Even after kissing him hadn't yielded the feelings he hoped for, having Sniper this close made him want to try again. It wouldn't be any different though.

Dumbfounded, Sniper could offer nothing more than a helpless bob of his head. "Take care of yourself, mate."

By the time he reached his own room, Spy's breaths were coming much quicker. He couldn't remember what he'd expected to happen. Would he have taken that further, had his teammate been receptive to his advances? Had he planned to replace RED's Sniper with their own, just to satisy his own pathetic desires? Even before he'd pushed the real Mick Mundy away, his kindness had only been pity. He knew that. It was why he'd shoved him aside. Sniper would never want him. Spy was just a sad creature he felt responsible for since he'd freed him from his Medic's lab.

Try as hard as he could, though, Spy still couldn't stop wanting that man. In fact, the realization that he'd ruined his chance to get closer only made his desire more pervasive. From the first day of battle, the uncouth, awkward bushman had caught his eyes. He was skilled and meticulous in a way the others were not, yet also careless far too casual about his own safety. 

Sniper was the sort of man who shouldn't have been handsome. His face was too long, his skin too weathered. As far as Spy knew, the only thing he bothered to do to take care of himself was to brush his teeth. The way he hid his features under a very worn-out old cowboy hat and large, amber-tinted aviator-style sunglasses, it was evident he was uncomfortable with being exposed. He had at least two-dozen filthy habits, the worst of which was having bought into to that god-awful 'jarate' program Saxton Hale sponsored. Yet somehow, despite all of that, Spy often couldn't take his eyes off the gangly Australian.

At first it had just been too fun, too amusing to watch the bushman who was so unaccustomed to attention squirm and get flustered under the teasing advances of a man he called his enemy. Every day it was more than the day before, until one day it wasn't teasing at all.

Ceasefires were often nothing more than a nuisance, but one in particular had terrified every mercenary there. Respawn had manfunctioned in the middle of battle. If Spy listened, he could still hear in his head the Administrator's frustrated shouts as she directed the Medics to see to everyone, regardless of team color. 

He and the Sniper had been mid-scuffle when the call to stop fighting came through. Both were cut up, but nothing major. In the hours that followed, Spy had lingered, drilling Sniper for his stories and flirting with increasing abandon. It was the memory of that day that had changed him. Nothing of the past that he was supposed to know as his, nor the moment that followed, ever felt so real as that afternoon.

Spy closed his eyes, sinking down into his armchair. All this technology, and the one thing they didn't have was what he wanted. If only he had a way to turn this all back. Back to before he'd chased Sniper away, before he'd used and possibly hurt his teammate because he couldn't accept his own mistakes. 

When his eyelids fell, the RED Sniper's sneer, cold and resolute, flashed in front of his eyes. There were no second chances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final note as things might be getting more confusing: when in doubt on POV, check the name. RED Spy obviously thinks of himself as his actual name, 'René'. BLU Spy has no clue what he should call himself anymore so he continues to think of himself as just 'Spy'.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Engie and René have their "discussion" in the workshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this one went so long for just one smut scene. I was on the fence with it for a while, and I just need to be finished with it. The next one should be out very soon. I promise things will be picking up with Sniper and BLU Spy, though it's a snail's stroll by comparison to these two.

As René approached Engie's shop, a distinct line where light met shadow trailed up his body until his face was lit. The overhead door had been raised the rest of the way, and there was the Engineer, helmet and goggles off, waiting. 

"Well look who it is," he said, his soft voice faintly teasing. A self-satisfied smile danced at the corners of his mouth. Somehow that infuriating smugness made him all the more exciting.

René felt warmer than he had all day, even without his suit jacket and vest. The first few buttons of his shirt had been left open as well, but his face was still hot under the balaclava. The very idea that he might be blushing like a flustered schoolboy was humiliating. "You did say we had more to 'discuss', after all."

"Did I? Must've slipped my mind."

His teeth grated together while he glared at the shorter man. Engie could have been messing with him, getting him riled and confused in an elaborate method of payback. It seemed like excessive cruelty to René, but then at the of the day, they were hired killers. 

After he'd gawked a few seconds too long, Engie chuckled. "Ya oughta see your face, slick."

"Merde," he huffed. "If you are going to keep playing around-"

Engie turned from him, pushing a button that brought the door lowering back down behind his guest. "Get the lock there, would ya?"

René folded his arms to keep from snatching for a cigarette in his irritation. Even if Engie's attitude made him have second thoughts, he wasn't about to undo the work of five consecutive breath mints just yet. "Is there a need for that?"

Small, sharp blue eyes assessed him, diligent as they swallowed up all the little details that betrayed his vocal indignance. Then his rounded shoulders lifted and rolled back down once. "I guess if ya want someone like the Doc comin' in here while I've got ya bent over beggin' for more, then go ahead and leave it unlatched."

His mouth watered, and he swore he almost felt his pupils dilate, despite the impossibility of that. His composure wasn't going to last. "You assume I will play the submissive one."

Engie pushed off the edge of the table he was leaning on and approached him. René considered moving aside, but he stood his ground as a short arm reached past him, deliberately brushing his shoulder. Just that little contact made his body hum with desire. Engie slid the manual door lock in place and then braced his palm on the door. 

"I know ya will." The Texan's voice had taken on a low, predatory tone again. It went right to his knees and made them threaten to give out. 

René swallowed against a dry throat. "And how would you know that?"

Engie shrugged again, stepping in until they were a hand's width apart. "Just can tell. 'Sides, gotta learn to trust me sometime."

René lifted his eyebrows. Perhaps Engie didn't know what he was asking, but that was not likely. No, he knew the exact implication of his words. "Is that what this is? Some kind of trust exercise?" he balked.

Engie gave him an odd half-smile and exhaled a short gust of air. "S'pose ya can look at it like that. But that goes both ways, ya know? I'm figurin' it'd cause me a lotta trouble if ya go waggin' your trap about this."

"I think you are aware it is in our mutual best interests that whatever happens and has happened in this building remains here," he said.

"Good thing we understand one another." Engie stood straight, moving his left arm up and wrapping it around René's shoulder. "So what is gonna happen in here?"

"I suppose that is up to you. Your workshop, your rules." He was a bit surprised Engie was amenable to fornicating where he worked, considering it had taken a bit of effort just to warm him up to the idea of socializing where he worked.

"Good choice."

"Go ahead, then," he whispered. He closed his eyes and leaned closer. Then the rough cloth of Engie's glove slid against the exposed skin of his collar as he tucked his hand under the edge of his mask. René tensed. He had been waiting for him to undo his shirt, or issue a command, but this was off limits. He moved to take a step back, but Engie's arm around him held him in place.

"Relax," Dell said.

René snatched Engie's wrist hard enough to feel through the heavy glove where the organic arm met steel parts. "Don't tell me to relax! What do you think you are doing?" he snarled. "You can't honestly expect me to-"

"Spy!" Engie's voice was firm, but beneath was an almost soothing, reassuring quality. "I've seen photos. She has quite a few."

Of course she did. Helen had everything. All the power, all the leverage, and all the resources. René was fooling himself with all these foolish attempts to regain control. 

"That doesn't give you permission to just do as you please!"

"From the day I went through that folder, I always felt like the poor sonuvagun who saw somethin' he wasn't supposed to. I wish it had all come from you."

The pounding in his chest began to slow, but he was aware of an occasional trembling in his muscles as he released Engie from his grip, dropping his arm. His distress must have been more evident than he had realized, because Engie moved back in, brushing his cheek. Amidst the carnal lust that brought them together, this deepening respect had been forming, and it allowed for a tenderness that would have otherwise felt out of place. 

"I may get irritated with ya, Spy, but I know this is hard for you. If I've learned somethin' in all this, it’s how damn unhappy you are. Ya hafta let yourself enjoy somethin', or you'll go mad."

The insight should have angered him, made him adamant to deny it, yet René felt himself lean in as the tension eased out of his body. "And that something is you, I take it?"

"If ya want it to be."

When nothing was said, the Texan tried again, even slower, but René didn't resist a second time.

Breaths came out in ragged, shaky sighs as all of René's energy went into staying collected. He tried to close his eyes, to focus on the simple sensations of fabric slipping free of flesh. When the balaclava was lifted clear from his chin and stopped just short of uncovering his nose, he gave in and reopened his eyes just a sliver. Engie was enraptured with his task, and with the way he looked at him, it seemed as though he meant to commit every detail to memory. 

René took in a gulp of air, faster than he'd intended, as he discovered he'd forgotten to breathe. A little tremor of surprise shook him, and he forced himself to exhale much slower. He placed his hands on Engie's hips, just enough to ground himself. Even though the evening was still fairly warm, the air that fell on his face felt cool to his flushed skin. It was refreshing enough to ease his nerves some more, and he held still until the mask slipped back behind his head. A few damp wisps of hair fell out of place across his brow. Experience told him his hair was a flyaway mess, damp in places from sweat.

"Photos don't do ya justice," Engie breathed, looking him up and down.

"I prefer it that way."

Engie folded the balaclava once and held it out to René. "Here. Don't wanna lose it."

He took it, only to realize he didn't have any place to tuck it, and set it with deliberate care on the small table by some of Engie's blueprints. "Satisfied?"

"Yeah. C'mere." The lapels of his shirt were snatched by either of the shorter man's hands and he was pulled down.

René frowned. "Is this going to become a habit?"

"Ain't my fault you're too tall," Engie said, a grin coming to his face.

"Then ask me to bend over!" he snapped, even as Dell held him hunched over. "My wardrobe is not subject to your abuse."

"Shut up and kiss me." 

Engie's left hand released his shirt to lace itself through his hair. He didn't have to apply much force; just one push against the back of René's head was encouragement enough. Their mouths mashed together with all the frenzied passion of two men who had gone far too long without satisfaction. Tongues traded spaces while hands wandered and tugged, roughly seeking routes through clothes that would take too long to remove. 

Engie started the process, hands working with surprising speed and deftness for one being mechanical. He had no trouble as he unbuttoned René's shirt, pushing aside the cloth and untucking the ends. The scratching of his stiff leather work glove was a dreadful distraction, however. The heavy material rubbed up his slender torso until he couldn't stand it anymore. René grabbed Engie's right arm, pushing at it.

"Off," he breathed. "Get rid of the glove!"

Engie laughed. "The Gunslinger ain't designed for sensual comfort, Spy." The Texan seemed more bemused than opposed, however.

"Take it off," René repeated. He wanted to feel that brilliant creation that was as much a piece of the man as any natural part. 

"Well ain't you insistent? All right, but when ya end up with bruises, don't say I didn't warn ya." Engie's eyes never left René's figure as he stepped away to remove his glove. 

René's groin burned at the thought. Distinct, finger-shaped purple marks where the Gunslinger had dug down against his hip. It was debauched, but God help him he wanted it. He took the chance to wriggle out of his shirt, and for fairness, he yanked off his own gloves before moving to his belt. Engie's metal hand grabbed his forearm. There was a hungry light in shorter man's eyes as he closed the distance again.

"My workshop, my rules. Forget already?"

A warmer, organic hand flicked open the buckle with ease, and then unfastened his trousers. Engie didn't bother to push them down before sliding his hand down to palm him through his underwear. A hot breath fell on René's bare chest as a few light, experimental nips were left along his collar. 

Hiding how desperate he was to be touched was a lost cause. René had already begun rutting up against the hand despite his best efforts. Emitting a low moan, he jerked his hips forward and hooked his hands together at the back of Engie's neck. "You have quite a bit of experience here, don't you?" His airy voice betrayed him.

"Jealous?" The shorter man stretched upward. He had to crane his neck as he kissed along his chin and jaw, allowing his teeth to graze skin. 

René snorted. "Relieved. I have been with far too many men who had no idea what they were doing."

The hands exploring him paused, as did the kisses, but the man administering both stayed where he was. 

"And you just figured I'd be one of 'em, huh?" The Texan's tone dropped lower. "'Cause I ain't some slim in a suit, with a fancy foreign accent playin' like he's a French James Bond, battin' his lashes."

He swallowed and wet his lips. "In my experience, you Americans tend to be very, shall we say, uncomfortable in pursuing the same sex."

Engie's hand hovered, tormenting him with its heat. "And I suppose in France y'all just announce it?"

"A fair point." It didn't matter what France, or America, or any other population of idiots tolerated, so long as Engie went back to rubbing him into a moaning wreck.

Engie gripped him through his briefs. "Go on and keep underestimatin' me, stretch. Just makes it more satisfying when you learn you're wrong."

René didn't have a retort for him, rendered speechless by that hand on his aching erection. Then his pants were nudged down off his hips, followed by his briefs. Finally flesh met his cock, no pesky fabric in between, and he fell against Engie, gripping his shoulders for support as a high-pitched whine left him. The touch was raw and rough, like the man administering it.

When he regained control of his breathing, he dove in for another kiss, just as savage as the first. A sharp yelp was muffled against the other man's mouth as the metal of the Gunslinger grazed over his chest and found a nipple. The prosthetic was warming up from contact with his body, but it still felt cool in comparison to the hot flesh of the hand around his cock. 

Engie chuckled, breaking the kiss. "Sensitive, ain't'cha?"

"Shut up," he growled. His voice was low but breathy. "And do that again."

An outright moan left him when the Texan complied, grinning at the scene he was the director of. His hands were turning René into a mindless puppet, dancing for him on the end of the strings that were his nerves. 

"God, you are a gorgeous sight," Engie murmured. He wrapped his right arm around his waist, and René felt the hard metal of the Gunslinger press against the small of his back. 

Praise had always been something of a weakness for him. René didn't like to consider himself vain, but maybe he was. In this situation, however, he found it almost maddening that Engie should be getting a full view without returning the favor. 

He pushed Engie back enough to yank open the slides to his overall straps, ignoring the warning glint in his eyes. He pushed the flaps down and grabbed hold of Engie's shirt, pulling up while moving in with a more vigorous kiss to distract him. The shirt didn't even make it to him armpits before Engie stopped him with a tight grip on each wrist.

"Gettin' pushy there, slim." The danger in his tone made René's erection twitch. 

He didn't let go, daring to be stubborn. "You don't get to strip and unmask me and then stand here fully dressed," he said.

"My workshop, my rules," Engie growled, enunciating every syllable. 

René's lips curled into an impatient snarl, but he didn't hold the stalemate more than a few heartbeats before releasing his hold on the fabric. As soon as he did, the Texan shifted back and pulled his shirt off himself. René didn't make another move yet, opting to watch as Engie undressed himself. They kept their eyes on each other until the last piece of his clothing was tossed aside and he could get a good look at him.

Plump and soft, with very little tone to his muscles, Engie was unlike any of the men he'd been with. That was what made him so desirable, though. There was something wonderful in how normal he was. Tall and muscle-bound started to seem so pretentious after a while, like a perfect body was a suitable substitute for substance. Besides, Engie was not unpleasant to look at by any means. In fact, the most important equipment was rather impressive.

"It seems a man's height has little to do with his endowment," René purred, unable to resist his own smartass internal monologue.

Engie scowled, leaning away when René moved back towards him. "You lookin' to get side-cuffed, slim?"

"Oh, don't be like that. It is a compliment, after all." He could have said far more lewd things, but he preferred to save those for later. He moved to get on his knees, pausing to look up. "May I?"

Instead of replying, Engie reached down to grab a fistful of René's hair, directing him the rest of the way down. The cock in front of him bobbed once, waiting for him, but he stalled. He teased his fingers along the shaft, tracing veins and rubbing his thumb over the slit. With each move he watched Engie's face. The man held his eyes, hand tight in his hair, but he didn't give in. 

After he'd gotten a good sense of the most sensitive areas, René began to lick around the head, tucking his tongue on the underside and sliding it up. Engie's pupils shrank for a split second, and then the battle of wills was over. When Rene's mouth was open enough to do so, the hand in his hair tightened harder and jerked his head onto his erection. The roughness made his own cock twitch and he moaned around him, opening wider.

The thrusts started slow, testing at first to see how deep René's throat could tolerate the intrusion. It was exquisite, and the faster and rougher he got, the more he wanted him to let go. For each slight choking, gagging sensation, he felt his mind slip away a bit. No more thinking, no more worries about whether or not he was in control. He wasn't, and he didn't have to be here. Nothing had ever been more freeing.

By the time Engie's deep, growling groans reached a more persistent volume, René's throat was numb. The shop was hazy and wobbly when he pulled him off, panting. He was in a strange, weightless state, but the lack of oxygen had been so inexplicably relieving.

"Goddamn, you are good at that," Engie said with a breathy chuckle.

"Merci," René said in earnest. "It is a valuable skill in espionage."

Engie snorted. "I bet. Makes me wonder what you're tryin' to get out of me."

"Oh? I thought you knew." He ran a finger along the swollen member, still damp with his own saliva, to make his point clear.

"Shit, get up here."

René was on his feet, vaguely aware of the dirt smearing his knees and shins and the tops of his feet. It was filthy and artless. It was liberating. He sealed his lips to Engie's before any more banter could be traded, lacing his long arms around the man's soft middle and reveling in the folds of his skin. Now with both of them naked, he could press up against him and savor the flesh against flesh. This was what he needed; the warmth of another person, another body colliding with his own. 

Somewhere amidst the passion of kisses and wandering hands, Engie found a tight purchase on René's hips and began to steer him back. He didn't resist, letting the shorter man direct him until the hard edge of a workbench counter pressed into his iliac. A slight sound of surprise escaped him as the kiss was broken off abruptly and Engie twisted him around to face the bench with a single, hard motion. The Gunslinger pressed against his back and pushed him forward, leaving him to catch himself with his arms to stop his chest from slamming onto the hard surface. The promise of being bent over something was becoming a reality, it seemed. 

Engie leaned over him as much as he was able, trailing a line of hot, wet kisses and licks along his back. "You are too damn good-lookin' for your own good, ya know that?" Teeth grazed against his skin when he spoke. 

"Merde," he gasped. Through half-lidded eyes, he could see his clothes discarded on the floor, and remembered that most important of tools he'd brought. "Wait... My pants. I need my pants."

He felt a hot breath against his spine as Engie snorted. "Beg pardon? You cold?"

René huffed. "You need something to work with here, don't you? I'm not putting engine grease anywhere near my ass!"

"Well didn't you plan this all out nicely?" The other man laughed, but nipped at René's shoulder. "Stay put."

René shivered at the low, dominant tone in his voice and remained where he was, content with the view as his stocky teammate retrieved his jacket. "Left pocket," he said, watching him paw around.

Engie produced the small bottle of lubricant and was courteous enough to place his pants up on a stool rather than drop them again. Not that it made any difference after they'd been on the floor, but the gesture was noted. The Texan didn't speak until he was behind René again. 

"Hope this is enough," he teased, his tone predatory as he rubbed the head of his cock between his cheeks.

At that point, anything would have sufficed, including the engine grease he'd sworn off seconds ago. He moaned, low and throaty, and rocked back against the pressure. 

"Get on with it," he snarled.

The bench did meet his chest that time, and he heard the thud as much as felt it. Engie pinned him there with the Gunslinger, beginning to prep him with his left hand. The first drops of lubricant slid along his backside, followed by a warm fingers massaging it in where it needed to go. He keened when the first finger went in, struggling to jerk back on it but held fast by the Gunslinger's steel force. He writhed in place, waiting as the finger began to move in and out, hooking with perfect timing in just the right points to rub along his prostate.

"Mon Dieu, more... please!"

Engie had gotten quiet, but an extra hard push in answered René's begging. Soon after, he conceded and added the second finger. It wouldn't even start to make an impact until three, but he decided against admitting that. A detailed account of his sex life was one of the few things not included in his file, and he found himself preferring Engie not knowing just how many partners he'd had. 

A few minutes into that third finger and he was gasping and wriggling, losing himself again. Engie worked him with firm, unrelenting thrusts of his hand, scissoring his thick and calloused fingers in rapid repetition. There was no hope of getting an upper hand here, quite literally. No chance of doing anything but submitting to the other man and his lust. It made his head light thinking about it, and he clung to that thought. A string of French and English profanities and praises had started in a constant flow from him, mingled with begging until finally Engie removed his fingers. An involuntary sob came at the temporary emptiness, even when it meant what he really wanted would follow.

"Ya ready for me?" Engie asked. Without being able to look, his grin was still audible. Metal fingers raked down his back all the way down over his right buttock while his organic hand slicked up his erection.

"Oui!" he rasped. 

Mismatched hands took hold of his hips and pulled him back, letting go for only a second to make sure that cock was lined up. René cried out in pained relief as the Texan's thick head pushed inside of him. Despite the sting he could only keep pleading for more, chanting affirmation with each little bit more he took. He couldn't wait in the end, and rocked his hips back hard enough to take the rest of him at once. The cry that left him was broken, a mixture of discomfort and triumph.

"Heh, guess ya don't wanna go light, huh?" Engie huffed, bucking his hips reflexively.

"Non, I do not," he breathed. "Baise-moi. Fuck me. Hard. Don't hold back."

"You asked for it."

And Engie delivered. He was aggressive and powerful, but not without passion or a sense of intimacy. René felt raw within minutes, cursing and moaning, his hands clinging to the edges of the workbench for support. With every hard thrust he felt the heat inside him get hotter and his stomach get tighter, eliciting another groan from his throat. White lights danced across blurred vision from time to time, and his back arched with every pull. The Gunslinger was digging into his hip enough to ache, as Engie had all but forgotten to control the force applied with it. René didn't care. Let it bruise. He'd hoped it would, after all.

"Goddamn, you feel good," Engie hissed. 

The feeling that his teammate was drawing out of him was unlike anything he'd experienced. It was overwhelming, and the pleasure almost unbearable. His cock bounced up against the underside of the counter, aching and neglected. Once he couldn't stand it any longer, he moved a hand to attend to himself, only for Engie to snatch his arm and hold it back.

"Ah ah, not yet, slick." His breathing was labored though, and when René let out a little sob in frustrated protest he released him. With both hands back on his hips, he pulled him back into him with each jerk forward, making impacts that much more intense.

René choked out a few loud cries, having to hold himself with both hands to counter the force of Engie's pounding. He couldn't say how much longer after that it was when he became aware of the involuntary tears that welled up in the corners of his eyes. They surprised him, and his partner as well, because Engie's hips slowed to a slow rolling motion.

"Too much?" he asked, stroking his left palm up and down René's back soothingly.

"Non. It's good. Too good, perhaps," he confessed, past the point of pride.

Engie's hand moved from his back, wrapping around to find René's cock. He bucked so hard into the first stroke that he knocked his stomach into the counter. 

"Oh God!" René's breath hitched, and it took several more strokes for him to ease into the rhythm, rocking himself just right to heighten his pleasure.

"There you go. That's right, darlin'," Engie coaxed, encouraging him.

The Texan kept it up, applying expert strokes as he returned to thrusting, though not as hard as before. From the intensifying of the chorus of grunts and growls that mixed with René's moans, he had to be getting close. Soon the hand was flying over his cock, slick from precome, and René was blind to anything but ecstasy.

"Oui! Oh God, yes, Dell!" His climax shook him to the core, reaching every nerve in his body. His toes curled and his muscles went rigid and he cried out as Engie's hand milked him, not stopping until he went limp.

Engie pulled out slowly, leaving him with that bittersweet void as he leaned over his tired form and jerked himself through his own orgasm, panting and grunting. A single curse punctuated his finish as René felt him spill across his back. 

For several minutes neither of them moved, save for lazy strokes along René's sides and back, and a sloppy kiss on his shoulder. Were they in a proper bed, he might have fallen asleep feeling as satisfied as he did, but the uncomfortable nature of the workbench eventually broke through the afterglow. When René's legs started shaking, Engie took the initiative and grabbed a cloth to wipe them both off. They traded a final series of graceless, weary kisses before each man went for his own pile of clothes. 

The solidity of his leg bones was somewhat questionable at the moment, and the ache in his backside was already setting in, but René managed to walk over to his clothing with some semblance of dignity. First things first, he made a grab for his balaclava. Once safely masked again, he fished out his silver case from the other pocket of his pants and extracted a cigarette, only to hear Engie scoff behind him. He turned to see him already back in his boxers. 

"Well, that was predictable," Engie said, wiping sweat off of his neck with his shirt before pulling it back on.

René held the cigarette between his lips to one side, giving him a nonchalant stare. "Would you care for one, mon ami?"

Though most of the others didn't smoke regularly, he'd seen Engie indulge on occasion, though usually it was with cigars from Demo or Soldier. After a brief pause, the Texan shrugged. "Heck, why not? Let's see what's so special about these things that you gotta order them special."

Permitting himself a small smirk, René held out the case to him. The Texan moved around the workbench to take one. He noted with amusement that Engie held it more like a cigar than a cigarette, even giving it a sniff before putting it to his lips. Stifling a chuckle of his own, he produced his lighter, and held it up for him. Then he leaned in close enough to light his own with the same flame. 

"You do have stunning eyes, cher." He lingered a few seconds longer before pulling back to take his first drag.

For the first time since it had all begun, he seemed to have cause Engie off guard. The shorter man stood speechless, eyes a bit wider than he'd seen them. When he gave his breathy laugh and shook his head, there was a hint of sheepishness about it. Could it be he was getting to him after all? 

He watched him out of the corner of his eye as he dressed, letting him have a moment to smoke and regain his composure. Good sex made him generous. 

"Well?" he asked when his briefs and undershirt were back in place, disheveled and wrinkled as they were.

"Huh?"

René snorted. "The cigarette."

"Oh, right. Not bad, actually. Wouldn't want a steady diet of them, but they've got a good flavor." 

"I'm so pleased you approve," he said, tone a bit dry, though in truth he liked the prospect of not having to guzzle a gallon of mouthwash every time he wanted a kiss. Assuming there would ever be another kiss. 

As he buttoned up his shirt, he could not stop noting that Engie's demeanor had shifted. He seemed distant and distracted, and René had been through this whole routine enough to know that often signified regrets. He also knew that possibility bothered him more than it should. 

Nothing else was said until René was making the final adjustments to his shirt in a futile attempt to appear as polished as he'd arrived.

"Not even stayin' for a drink then?" Engie asked with a half-hearted grin tucked in between the words.

"I was under the impression I had imposed enough for one evening." 

The other man quirked an eyebrow at his word choice. "Dunno if I woulda put it like that."

René held up a hand. "Forgive me. I am tired, mon ami."

"Right. 'Night then, stretch." Engie waited until he'd unlatched the lock, and then pushed the button to open the garage. Reading whether or not he was at all disappointed was nigh impossible. His whole mannerism was too closed off. 

"Bonne nuit, Engineer. ...My thanks for the company," he added, and it felt even more ridiculous to have said when the Texan only offered an odd smile and a characteristic scoff in return.

René's steps were a little heavy as he moved back towards the main building on base, but he forced himself to see the logical side. After all, that was undoubtably what Engie was going to do. Continuing with something more between them would be foolish. True, René hoped perhaps he could get the Texan's walls to come down, but instead his own had cracked. The moments of vulnerability had been as exquisite as they were dangerous, a terrifying escape one could get addicted to. That was something he understood all too well. A good spy knew when to abandon a mission.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who followed this a year ago when it came out may remember the second scene here, which was postponed after the overhaul, but it has been remastered and expanded considerably.

"Don't look up, ya wanker," Mick muttered as the BLU Spy took notice of the little red dot trained on his tie.

Hesitation was the worst mistake one could make in a battle, but he neglected the trigger the whole time Spy's gaze was following the laser beam up to its source. The high magnification on his end gave the illusion that Spy should be able to make out just as many details on him, even if he knew that was impossible. Regardless, the rogue still saw him, and he wasn't budging. He didn't cloak, or duck for cover. Christ, he barely even blinked. His eyes were dull and hollow, with dark circles beneath them. Mick wasn't looking at a mercenary, he was looking at defeated man who didn't give a damn anymore.

"Oh nah ya don't! Fuck you!" he snarled, gripping his rifle tighter. He clenched his jaw, and his brow furrowed until the rough hairs of his eyebrow brushed the edge of the eyepiece. "Don't try to make me feel bad! Ya don't get to do that anymore."

Mick was lousy at holding grudges. He didn't see the point. Stuff happened, he got pissed, then he moved on. Problem was, grudges were a handy thing in Teufort. They kept a man focused, so that the forlorn gaze of a cloned Frenchman meeting his eye through his scope didn't start to wear his resolve back down in a matter of days.

His bloody hands were shaking, and sweat was making his grip less sure. Time to just take the shot already, and get it over with. Spy didn't flinch as the laser travelled up between his eyes, and that increasingly familiar mix of unwanted emotions clawled at his gut.

"Damn it!"

The crack of the rifle firing drowned out his shout of frustration, but he still shut his eyes a fraction of a second too soon. For a long moment he didn't look. He didn't want to confirm his kill; he didn't want to watch Spy die again after last time. That empty, dismayed expression in his dying eyes was still haunting him on and off the field. When he finally did open his eyes, his heart dropped into his stomach.

Spy still stood where he'd been, staring with the vaguest glimmer of surprise. Mick had missed a clean shot on a stationary target. The rogue gave him an inquisitive lift of his eyebrows, and he gulped, dropping back behind the wall of the nest. Blood was pumping in his ears, and it made the sounds of the battle fall far away.

"Shit!"

What the hell was that? He hadn't missed on purpose, but he hadn't wanted to hit him either. Instead of keeping steady, he'd been shaking like a scared baby roo.

A string of grumbled curses continued to leave him as he dragged his hat and sunglasses off and yanked his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face. He blotched the hem over his eyelids for good measure and then let it fall. Taking a few deep breaths in didn't do much to soothe him when the air was hot and dry and filled with dust that scratched his throat. He huffed out the last one and spun back to the window.

Spy was gone. Just as well. Maybe he was on his way to mock him, to plant his knife between his shoulderblades and sneer down at him while he died. He almost wished he would, but the day ended without any other signs of him. In the days that followed, he made up for that miss, but it gutted him to do it. Spy wasn't even trying anymore.

 

* * *

 

The shadow approaching his camper was distinctly human. Too thin and lithe to be most of the team. There was only one man it could be, of course. He already knew that. But he waited until the blue pinstripe pattern of the man’s suit was visible in the light coming from his camper.

"Spook?" His first instinct told him to go for his gun, to just send him back before he attacked him. "What do ya want this time? Lookin' for a little overtime asskickin'?" He attempted to deliver some venom in his tone, but it wasn't too convincing.

The BLU Spy's head hung low, his eyes not quite meeting Mick's. He wasn't on his guard at all. "Am I too late?"

"For what?" Mick glanced at his rifle, then back. _Just bloody shoot him. Don't think about it. No point in questioning it._

"...Heh, truth be told, bushman, I don't know." There was a raspy quality to the Frenchman's voice.

Resolve was already crumbling and slipping between his fingers. The last few matches had been tearing him back down. No matter how many times they went over this, it was always the same. Whether either of them liked it or not, Mick cared. "...You okay, mate?"

When Spy didn't respond, Mick hopped from the edge of the camper door to the ground. This was stupid. It could be a ruse to attack him. But no. As he approached, he could see Spy was breathing heavier than he should have been. Tiny beads of sweat spread across his brow right under where his balaclava opened up.

"Shit, ya look terrible," he muttered.

"Merci. You always have such tact." Spy accompanied his answer with a short roll of his eyes.

"I just meant... Ya need rest or... somethin'." Mick swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. Shit, but he was such a pushover. "C'mon inside." Part of him didn't expect Spy to listen. He stood and waited nevertheless.

Mick's patience earned him an eventual grunt, and then smoky blue eyes slid up to regard him at last, clear but tired. "This just keeps getting weirder, doesn't it?" Spy flashed him a wary look before heading to the doorway. He appeared so weak that Mick wondered if he'd have to lift him inside, but he managed. "Charming home," came a snide remark from over him.

"Oi, ya wanna try walkin' back to your base instead? Maybe you'd find the company of the night critters more to your likin'."

A gloved hand waved back at him from inside. "No need to get defensive, bushman."

"Yeah, yeah. Just sit down and rest or somethin'," he repeated. This development was like a kind of hallucination. It was enough to rub his nerves the wrong direction already, without Spy dropping cynical judgements about his lifestyle.

Mick stepped back up into his camper and watched as the Spy - _the enemy_ \- strolled over to the small dinette table and flopped down into the bench.

"Ya want anythin'?"

Spy had his disguise kit out and was looking at it with a rather forlorn expression. "I don't suppose you have a smoke... s'il vous plais?"

Mick lifted a curious eyebrow. The walking chimney had somehow managed to run out of cigarettes? Well that was odd. "Yeah... Sure."

Of course the question was where he'd left them last. He began rummaging around in a few cupboards, grumbling and chastising himself for his own lack of organization. After a minute he paused, the Spy's gaze on him an almost physical force. Then it occurred to him. "Oi, move over."

"What? Why?" Spy balked at him when he nudged him further into the booth.

"Cause." Mick ignored his irritation as he stepped up on the edge of the seat. His hand searched the shelf above, moving around a bit until he felt the small carton. Lowering himself back to the floor where he belonged, he tossed it at Spy. "That's why. Ya want coffee?"

Spy stared at him like he was some kind of wild animal that had just barged into a dinner party. Then again, that was how Frenchmen tended to view him in general, it seemed, so who knew what he was thinking now? The rogue slid a cigarette from the carton while still giving him that odd look. "Non," he said. Then he remembered his manners. "Merci."

"Ah bugger it, I'm makin' some for me." He turned the gas up on his stove and lit the burner under his coffeepot before turning back to watch Spy. "Ya really don't look well, Spook. I'm not messin' around."

"Bushman," Spy said, his voice softer than he'd ever heard it. "Ask yourself this: how would you feel if you found out your entire existence was an elaborate lie that made no sense at all?"

"I recall ya sayin' ya didn't want my input."

"...I suppose that was what I'd hoped I was not too late for," Spy confessed, once more avoiding his eyes.

Mick stared at the other man slumped at his dinnette, twisting an unlit cigarette beteen his fingers. Spy sat hunched over the table, fixing his attention on its surface. He was tired and confused, lost enough that in spite of their recent interactions, he'd come back.

"Nah." Mick leaned back against the counter, studying the chiseled angles of the man's covered face. "It ain't too late. M'right here."

Spy didn't move when Mick moved to sit across from him at the table. "You asked me why I keep fighting. I don't know why. What would you do?" His eyes shifted focus at last to meet Mick's, pleading for an answer.

"I... wish I knew. I'll tell ya somethin', even I've been wonderin' why I keep it up. This ain't right." Mick shook his head, reaching over to grab a cigarette for himself. As he started to reach for his lighter by the stove, Spy flicked his open and held it out for him. After the second it took to register the gesture, he nodded his thanks and lit it. "Creeps me out, too. Thinkin' some other bloke out there thinks he's me... he _is_  me. Sorta.” He sighed before taking a drag off his cigarette. “What kinda fucked up shit did I sign up for?"

For several minutes, neither man spoke. Eyes avoided meeting, taking turns stealing glances until the other set wandered back. He took advantage of the opportunity as much as he was able, to sit here so close. The overhead light in the camper kept back most of the shadows, and without his aviators on, he had a clear look at the Spy for the first time. Not much could be determinded with that mask on, save for how pale he was, and just how dark and sunken his eyes were getting.

The smoke from their cigarettes curled up and around them, mingling together and filling the small camper with each exhaled breath. Mick tried to concentrate on the familiar and comforting noises of the nighttime creatures, but they seemed to have gone silent. Maybe they were all waiting, eavesdropping on this strange meeting between two rivals. Spy’s breathing was deep and audible, just a touch raspy, and it held most of his attention. A tiny, high-pitched wheeze could be heard every few breaths. The man never made a sound when he was stalking him. Perhaps he held his breath all that time.

At last, the Frenchman drew in a sharper breath to speak. "I’ve thought about leaving the range of Respawn. I am sure they have plans to destroy me, eventually, if not very soon given what I’ve learned. Perhaps I should expedite the process."

The words took a moment to sink in before Mick's eyes flew wide. "Ya seriously talkin' about suicide?"

Spy scoffed. "It is hardly a real life I'd be extinguishing. It cannot be called suicide when one already exists elsewhere-"

"Look, ya cut that out, alright? Do ya really believe all that?"

“Why shouldn’t I? Hasn't your Engineer spoken to you?"

There was an accusation there, but Mick couldn’t make sense of why. “What’re you on about, Spook?"

Dark gray eyebrows lifted under the rim of his balaclava, and then fell again. “…Nevermind.”

“Don’t pull that crap with me, ya wanka. Tell me what that was supposed to mean!”

He paused, and Mick began to wonder if he was going to have to drop it. Finally Spy huffed. “Your Engineer has just been astute enough to point out that you are coddling me. I thought perhaps that he might have had a few choice words with you on the matter, to remind you that I am ‘just a clone’."

“Fuck him.” The statement came so fast, without any hesitation, that the Spy’s sudden widened eyes felt like a mirror of his own surprise at himself.

The Frenchman was staring at him, trying to peel him apart with his sharp, calculating eyes. "What does it matter to you, anyway, bushman?"

Under the scrutiny, his skin crawled. Spy could see through him; he always had, always would. Even if he was embarrassed, it would be easier to just admit the truth. "Do ya remember the first time we actually talked?" Mick ventured.

"I pressume you are referring to the mid-battle Respawn malfunction that left us all sitting around in a ceasefire for a day?" Spy nodded. His lips formed a thin line, like they wanted to smile, but couldn't put forth the effort. "Oui, I remember, bushman. I confess, I thought you would have long forgotten."

"That day when ya hung around, pesterin' me with questions about myself, keepin' up with all that nonsense ya always pulled... Ya know the truth is it changed how I saw ya. Even if I didn't wanna believe it, I saw how different ya were from our Spy. I still don't really get it, but I know that you're not him, you're you. Shit, that don't make any bloody sense!" Mick grunted, pressing a hand over his face and drawing it down. The whole thing was a mess, and he was just making it more complicated than it needed to be. "Forget I said anythin'," he huffed.

Spy's stare hadn't faltered, but his analytical glare had melted into a glassy-eyed look of bewilderment.

"Wot?"

"I... non, it doesn't matter." Something in him had softened, almost as if he was touched that Mick remembered. "I suppose in the end, it still doesn't matter."

"I does. It means you’re your own person. They can't treat you like this." The kettle water was boiling, steam from within howling its way out the opening of the lid. It must have started out quieter for him to just notice it. Mick huffed and got up.

"What are you going to do about it, bushman? Go on strike?" Spy scoffed at the idea, his bitter laugh filling the small camper.

Mick poured coffee into his favorite mug, staring at the stains that had colored in the minute cracks in the glaze over the years. "Maybe."

The Frenchman's eye were huge when he sat back down. After gawking at him for an awkward half-minute, he shook his head. "Merde, you're serious."

In truth he hadn't given it any thought until just now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the idea had been bumping around. Ever since his conversation with Medic, it had been pestering the conscience that a mercenary like him didn't even have any business having. "What about you? Ya sit there sayin' ya got nothin' to lose, why not stand for somethin'?"

"Are you proposing rebellion?"

Mick swallowed a gulp of his coffee, black and still scalding hot. He barely tasted the stuff anyway. "I might be."

The other man held his burnt-out cigarette, a look of dismay evident. Mick dragged the ashray from the back of the bench behind him and slid it over. Spy nodded his thanks, disposing of the butt and going for another. His slim, graceful fingers trembled ever-so-faintly as he extracted it from the carton. He seemed to be considering what Mick had said, so he kept quiet and watched him as he drank his coffee.

For not the first time, the mystery of what hid behind the balaclava started nagging him. It was evident through the tight cloth that he was handsome. Beneath the blue fabric was a hint of sharp features. Even as it was, clever eyes and a charming smile did wonders to give him plenty of allure. The strangest thing was that Mick had never thought about any of this around RED's Spy.

"This... would require me to gather more information," Spy said at length. There was a spark in his eyes that had been missing until now. "In order to reach one's enemy on their level, you must know them first."

Mick sucked in a breath and held it as he nodded. They were really doing this. Five hours ago he'd been killing the man across from him. Now he was ready to throw everything on the line to save him. All it ever took was a sad look from those steely eyes.

"Prolly right there. Means we hafta keep playing along in battle, don't it?" The idea of going another day gunning down the same people, these clones of men he called friends, was sickening.

"Oui. That is the only option." Spy caught his eyes and held them. "That includes one another, Sniper."

"Yeah. I know." That didn't mean he had to like it.

"Good. I will find you when I need to." Spy started to get up, his eyes narrowing at Mick's hand when it grabbed his arm. "Is there a problem, bushman?"

"Mate, you're white as chalk and sweatin' bullets. Ya need bloody rest."

"Perhaps. I do believe I have a place to do that, at my base." Still, Spy sank back into his seat.

"Then why do ya look like ya haven't used it in weeks?" he dared to ask.

"I've seen a lot of things just here in Teufort. If I counted my memories, false as they are, I should be immune to horror by now. But I... I can't sleep. There are too many nightmares."

A sickening tension stuck in Mick's throat in hearing him say that. For Spy to even confess that, things had to be very bad. "Mate, ya can stay here for a bit, ok? I ain't gonna sleep anyway." To punctuate that, he stepped over to refill his coffee.

The energy to argue must have been drained out of Spy from simply having stood up, because he sighed and shrugged. "Fine. For a bit."

"Good. I'll drive ya back so ya don't hafta walk too far. You're makin' yourself sick." Something occurred to him then. "Spook, ya seen your Medic about any of this?"

Spy tensed. "I am fine. This will pass."

"Ya stupid bloody snake, no wonder you're gettin' sick!" A metallic clank sounded when his mug hit the stovetop. "Ya gotta promise me you'll go talk to him."

Spy blinked twice. "Is this some kind of joke."

"Why would it be?"

The eyes that stared back at him blinked a few more times, and then Spy started to chuckle. Planting a hand on the tabletop to push himself up, the rogue slid out of the booth and moved right up in front of him. "You're terribly annoying, bushman, you know that? But..." Gloved hands grabbed the edge of the counter on either side of him. Having boxed him in, Spy leaned in until his chest was almost touching Mick's. "Maybe it's the fever, but it's almost cute."

Mick gulped, his heart pounding out a frantic S.O.S. to his brain to get him out of this. Those eyes were too clever, and that smirk too suave, and something told him Spy could see right through him. He wasn't as careless as some of the others about letting on that he found other men attractive. That would cost him his job.

_What I'm plannin' with this snake's already gonna cost me my job._

Indeed, what did he have to lose?

"You seem nervous, Sniper. But I know I'm not mistaken. I've seen those eyes wandering." He pressed his torso up against his.

"S-Spook, cut it out! You're bloody delirious, is what ya are!" Mick growled, pushing him back.

For a split second, a pang of rejection shone in the Spy's eyes, but it was gone before he could consider it. "Perhaps you are right. I don't feel quite myself. Though, there is more than one reason for that, hm?"

Mick sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We're gonna do this, ok? I'm gonna help ya. But ya gotta take care of yourself or we ain't gettin' very far."

Spy nodded. "Oui."

"Just relax. I'll give ya a lift back to your base. Ya look ready to pass out."

He always parked in different areas. It gave him the illusion that he was still on the road and free, seeing different views out the window every morning. Engie had gone over Respawn's range for him once, so he knew how close to stay. This spot was over a kilometer from BLU territory. No way he was letting Spy make that walk in his condition. Having a few smokes seemed to have calmed him, but the chilly night air would not mix well with the fever he suspected he had.

Mick had to be careful, driving so close to BLU base. Even at night, sometimes the teams would stand guard to avoid any surprise attacks from the enemy team looking to gain an edge, or just settle a personal grudge. He kept a safe distance from the buildings, but got close enough that he was comfortable Spy could make the trip.

"Guess I'll see ya on the field," he said as Spy got ready to hop out. A sinking remorse prodded at him knowing he'd have to keep up this charade.

Spy nodded, flashing him a smile that covered too much sadness to look genuine. "Oui. Do not look so forlorn, bushman. You used to enjoy killing me!" Mick's lips curled back into a growl but he stopped him from speaking, pressing a finger to his lips. The leather of his gloves was soft and supple. "Tell you what. Next time you win, I'll give you a kiss."

Mick's cheeks flared and the heat was crawling back to his ears. "What?!"

Spy burst into laughter. "The look on your face, bushman! Oh, how I wish I had a camera."

"Oi, get back to your base, ya bloody Spook!" he snapped.

"Calm down, bushman. But... well, I do appreciate your help," the Frenchman managed. Spy slid out of the seat and brushed his hands over his suit to smooth it out. "Good night."

"Wait, mate!" Mick tossed him the carton of cigarettes when he turned. "Ya need 'em more than me."

Spy caught the carton and smiled. "Merci, bushman. Au revoir."

At least he was smiling again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a flashback and will hopefully give some insight into BLU Spy and Mick's interactions prior to the beginning of the story.

_Seven months ago_

Unplanned ceasefires were generally regarded as nothing more than a tedious nuisance by both RED and BLU. Even the unsettling reality that their occurrence usually meant Respawn was malfunctioning had faded over the years. The men were numb to the threat of death. Everything could be taken for granted if it was available long enough, even immortality. The Medics hated the ceasefires more than everyone else. If any mercs were in critical condition when the issue was detected, they were responsible for preventing a permanent death, regardless of team loyalties. The Administrator would hold them responsible for any loss of employees during a ceasefire.

As a surprise to all of RED, the BLU Medic was the picture of professionalism at these times, and nothing like their own German teammate. There were several speculations. Maybe something in the cloning process had removed some of Medic's insanity. Maybe it was just their imagination. Maybe they weren't really clones at all. Mick didn't give a shit, so long as he got fixed up. After almost four years of this bull dust, he wasn't about to die over some cactus hardware.

This time was different though, and he was as burred up as ever. Not because the enemy Medic had just had to heal a fatal stab wound in his side, or even because the snake who'd made it had also saved him by getting the doctor's attention.

Because now... well now he _wouldn't go away_.

"Quite the close one, bushman."

Spy had perched himself on the rail of Mick's lookout. Though he maintained a practiced appearance of ambivalence, Mick had learned to recognize the faint variances in his tone. That smugness was one of the most common.

"I thought I told ya to piss off."

Not that he'd thought for a fraction of a second that he would. The Frenchman thrived off of making Mick's life a living hell, which was probably the only reason he'd made any effort to save it.

"You did. I ignored you," Spy responded flatly.

Mick bristled, forcing himself to ignore his unwanted company and focus on cleaning off his gun. Spy didn't budge. He was so self-assured. Mick had a mind to punch him, but it would knock the other man back just enough to throw him over the edge of his precarious position. As much as watching the look of shock and fear on the asshole's face presented a tempting satisfaction, it would have wait until Respawn was running again.

Spy was watching him, with one leg crossed and the lower one tucked back against the rail for support. He must have sensed Mick was struggling to restrain himself because a faint smirk flickered behind the orange glow of his lighter.

"So what, ya gonna sit there smoking and staring at me until they fix this?" Mick said.

"Hmm?" Spy drew in a long breath through his cigarette, and as he spoke the wisps curled out around his thin lips in twirls and puffs. "Perhaps. It seems more efficient than having to climb all the way back here if they fix things."

"Engie better make this a quick fix," Mick snarled. "Not only do I get rid of ya faster, I can do it by blowin' that smug grin off your face!"

Spy was unaffected, of course. "Well that seems rather excessive. I did save your life, you know."

"Just so ya could keep ending it!"

That was met was an exaggerated sigh before Spy slipped off of his seat on the railing. "It's nothing personal, just my job."

Mick tensed as Spy started to move towards him, but stuck to his busywork. He kept his eyes down, relying on peripheral vision and his other senses. Ceasefire or no, his natural instinct was deep mistrust. "Hmph. Ya know, if any of us made things personal, it'd be you, Spook. Can't think of a bloody day goes by you're not breathin' down my neck."

The Frenchman paused his steps to take another drag off his cigarette, but his steely blue eyes never left him. Mick could feel that stare on him, tangible and unnerving like fingers just brushing the back of his neck. After drawing out the uneasy moment for a good minute, probably just to amuse himself, Spy dropped his cigarette butt onto the floor and scuffed it in under his heel. Mick expected him to keep staring, or to get bored and cloak, wandering off to bother some other poor soul instead. What he was not prepared for was for the Spy to saunter over to him and take a seat on the crate right beside him.

Mick all but leapt out of his own hide. "Oi! What the bloody hell do ya think you're doin'?" he snapped, balking and jerking away, only to find himself boxed in on the other side by the wall.

"Sitting," Spy replied, an almost innocent smile on his face. Were it not for the playfulness in his eyes, it would have been far more convincing.

"Goddamn it, Spook, piss off!"

Spy folded his legs and clasped his hands over his upper knee, rocking back a tad. "Non."

"Christ, what is it with you?" He could have simply stood and moved, but at this point nothing said Spy would not just follow.

"It's more interesting up here."

Grunting in resignation, Mick budged a bit further to his left in a vain attempt to put some distance between them. "Fine. Do what ya want, you're gonna anyway."

"Indeed," Spy confirmed, his eyes dancing with amusement.

The rogue was impossible. As they sat in surreal silence, he kept leaning a hair towards Mick, but otherwise did nothing else. No teasing remarks or knives in the back or anything. It was more unsettling than being stalked by the man in the midst of battle. What did he want? Mick couldn't feign cleaning his gun forever, either. If he stood, he'd starting pacing, and then Spy would know for sure just how anxious he was making him. There was no way he'd give him that satisfaction. That had to be the whole purpose of this little game.

"You are quite thorough, aren't you, Monsieur Mundy?" he purred after several minutes.

The break in the silence made Mick jolt and his gun fell from his hands. He made a frantic grab for the rifle and managed to catch it before casting a scathing glare onto Spy. "You're always fussin' about dirt, ain't ya? Now I'll have a nice clean gun to blow your priss head off with."

"Awe, how sweet," Spy cooed, not at all fazed.

"Yeah, m'real thoughtful like that," he grumbled.

The other man was leaning still closer, craning his neck to watch Mick's fumbling hands. "Do I make you nervous, bushman?"

"What kinda question is that?"

Spy shrugged. "You are fixating. I never thought of you as the obsessive-compulsive sort."

Mick's scowl deepened further. What did that even mean, and why was the enemy Spy so focused on what sort he was at all? It was only occurring to him now that going on the offensive did not have to include killing. He'd been in the job of ending lives for too damn long. Yet as the warmth of the Frenchman's body continued to hover over his right shoulder, Mick found himself in less of a hurry to get rid of it than was wise.

"Yeah?" He set his gun aside, leaning it up against the wall. "Ya put a lot of thought into that?"

"In fact, I do." Spy chuckled, waving a hand at Mick's wary stare. "Oh, please, don't look at me like that. I am a spy; observing is my job."

Mick grunted in response.

"It is hardly my fault if you make it impossible to separate work from pleasure."

After the half-second it took that comment to sink in, his cheeks began to heat up. The unpleasant warmth crawled back to his ears, deep within the skin where relief could not be had. Mick stood in a single, abrupt motion, and bolted to the opposite end of the nest, putting as much space between them as the small structure would permit.

"Quit messin' around, ya snake!" He eyed one of the fuller mason jars in the corner, having half a mind to use the only effective, non-fatal method of Spy control he had available. But contrary to popular mockery, Mick did have a basic sense of personal hygiene. He preferred not to use said 'weapon' in areas he tended to spend any significant amount of time in.

"Relax, bushman," Spy said. "We could be here for a while, after all."

Spy's hand slipped into his jacket and Mick twitched reflexively, eyes falling to the rifle he'd stupidly left beside his enemy. A fraction of a second after, the BLU produced his disguise kit with a deliberate flourish. As he flicked it open, long fingers selecting one of the black cigarettes within, his eyes remained tilted up to watch Mick.

"Would you care for one?" he offered with a faint smile, holding out the case.

Mick regarded it like cheese in a mousetrap, but then an idea struck him. Allowing his muscles to uncoil, he closed the gap between them in two strides. "Yeah, why not?"

It worked. As he took one of the cigarettes, Spy's eyebrows arched upward, betraying his surprise. He'd deliberately done what the rogue predicted he wouldn't. It was such a trivial thing, but in the moment, it felt as though he'd outsmarted him. The Frenchman would have laughed at him if he knew how pleased he was, but that didn't matter. What was important was the message that he'd sent: You can't read me as well as you think.

Turning his attention to the cigarette he now realized he had to smoke, he noticed the wrapper was actually black. He was almost positive his teammate's smokes were regular white ones. "...This some sort of fancy flavored baccy or somethin'?"

Spy made a dramatic show of rolling his eyes. "They are imports, you uncultured oaf! Sobranie produces only the finest tobacco in the world."

Mick mirrored the eye roll. "Can't believe Administration bothers to fill half the requisitions you French ponces put in."

"Shut up and try it."

"Whatever." He had to rummage in his vest pockets for a moment, trying to recall into which one he'd slipped his lighter last.

"Do you need a light?" his rival asked with a bemused light in his eyes.

Mick ignored him, pulling out his beat-up old brass lighter a second later. Spy simply shrugged and returned his to inside his jacket. It took a few tries to start, during which Mick would have liked to disappear. Though not the sort to be embarrassed easily, it was rather humiliating to stand there fumbling with his lighter after refusing Spy's. It was with relief that he finally got a flame, and he made a mental note to finally just replace the thing.

His adversary watched him take the first few inhales, now more with what seemed to be genuine curiosity. Mick realized he was waiting for a verdict.

"...S'ok, I guess. Too mild."

"Do Australians prefer something to burn out their throats before they consider it not 'mild'?"

Though he felt obligated to deny that, he didn't, because it was not all that far off. Oz was a harsh land, and her children grew up harsh or got dead.

"Only as much as ya French poufs need to water everythin' down so it don't overwhelm your fragile senses," he retorted.

France, as far as he could tell, was a frilly land of cowards and foppish pikers who had to layer everything with ten different kinds of trim before they called it done. They couldn't even just drink their booze properly; had to get all delicate about it, swirling it around and sniffing it. Mick was damn glad he wasn't French.

Spy had not bothered to continue to engage him in their little banter, however. He had leaned back against the wall, and was far too content there considering that whenever the bell rang, one of them was going to kill the other. Speaking of which, Mick reached down and snatched back his rifle before returning to the other side. He intended to do the killing, after all.

Settling on the opposite side of the nest, he propped his rifle against the wall. If the siren went off with Spy in here, it wasn't going to be fast enough, but he still preferred it next to him. He grabbed another old crate to sit down on and drew his long curved knife from its sheath. A quick glance at the BLU revealed just a hint of wariness in how his frame tensed. Good. Now maybe he'd stop being so smug. But as Mick laid the base of the blade flat on his knee and pulled the worn whetstone from his pocket, the Frenchman's accent cut through his illusionary control of the situation.

"Mick Mundy," Spy hummed, his tone musing, as if he was saying the name simply for its own sake.

Mick gave him a short glare, but didn't bother to object. Some of the mercs preferred to keep a more strict observance of the no names policy. He didn't really care, and it wasn't like you could keep something from a Spy anyway. He drew the stone across the blade in what was intended to be a menacing gesture, but to no effect. The rogue had already mastered the signs of any disquietude he had felt.

"You know, I still can't quite figure out what it is that makes you so much more... interesting than everyone else here," he went on. His voice reminded Mick of how cats were portrayed in those cartoons on the tele. All coy and smooth and full of themselves, and always up to no good.

"Quit tryin' to 'figure me out'. And I ain't interestin', ya snake. M'just a regular bloke with a good aim," he grumbled. He didn't want to be 'interesting', not to anyone, but least of all to the Spy.

"Oh, but you are. Quite intriguing."

"You're bein' a right creep, ya know that?" he snarled in spite of the heat in his cheeks. Mick always did blush easy.

Gray-blue eyes blinked back at him, not half as demeaning in their gaze as he'd come to expect. "That certainly is not my intention."

"Why not just bother your own Sniper, huh?" he asked.

"A fair question. I am not sure how to explain. He is different. Rather dull in comparison. Strange, don't you think?"

When Mick gave only a noncommittal shrug, Spy probed deeper.

"After all, they say one team is just a copy of the other."

What was he trying to get at?

"Somethin' like that," Mick grunted.

"Hmm, does it not bother you?"

He didn't like to think about that whole cloning business, and so he didn't. It was creepy, and he didn't even know for sure if it was true. Except he pretty much did, because Medic liked to ramble about his observations over dinner in the commons from time to time.

But why did Spy know anything about it? BLU wasn't supposed to know. Maybe the Frenchman just suspected. That wasn't right, either. The clones weren't even supposed to think that way, they were supposed to be sort of mindless. Spy had never struck him as anything but fully cognizant though, and it made him question more things than he cared to.

He just wanted to do his damn job. Make a few fruit salads and get paid. Easy. Straightforward. No bloody morals and weird questions to ask.

"I don't think about it."

"What if you were the clone?"

"...I ain't."

Spy made a soft clicking sound. "So sure. Then you must think I am one, non?"

"How should I know? Maybe the teams're mixed."

Spy was looking strangely pleased, like the dingo who'd just caught himself a great big possum for his sup. "Surely someone must know."

Shit. He needed to get the wanker to drop this. It was just gonna get Mick in trouble. "Got me. Woulda thought that was your field."

Mick had never been a good liar. He'd always do something to give himself away, which was a sort of feat in itself, considering the usual 'signs' of lying were things he tended to do anyway. It wasn't so much that he didn't like people, he just never felt quite 'right' around others. Not making eye contact, mumbling, fidgeting, glancing at his watch or towards the nearest exit were all just his natural reactions to prolonged conversation. Yet somehow he managed to act even more out of sorts, because the Frenchman gave a little smirk that clearly said he wasn't fooled. Then again, his audience was a spy.

"Bushman, please. You couldn't even fool the Soldier. It's insulting that you'd even bother with me," Spy said.

Christ, what was taking Engie so long? His eyes slid to his watch of their own accord before he realized he'd just been telling himself not to let them. Never mind that, though; it had only been a half-hour. Bloody hell.

"Well, Monsieur Mundy?" Spy drew out his syllables as he spoke, making his voice seem almost musical.

"I ain't lettin' ya grill me for your stupid intel, ya snake!" he snapped. "Ya wanna know so bad, go diggin' in Medic's files, but don't blame me for whatever nightmarish way it gets ya done in!"

Spy's eyes flickered with interest, but he remained calm. "You don't like this arrangement with our employer, do you?"

"Don't matter. I signed on, so I'm just gonna keep bein' bloody good at my job."

He focused on his kukri, sliding the stone along its blade. He liked the way he could feel it vibrate through the weapon into the handle, making his left hand tingle as he held it steady. The grating sound of the stone soothed him, took the edge off any other sounds. Those simple, tangible things that he could sense and connect to and ground himself with, they were all Mick needed. Not whatever drama Spy was trying to start.

The other man knew he had him, though. "It makes me wonder, why did you sign the contract? A man like you does not seem the sort to allow an employer to anchor him."

Down below, some of the other merc's shouting was fading out, leaving nothing but hot, stagnant air to fill the void. Mick clung to the sound of stone against metal, drawing it out longer with each sweep, eyes locked onto the blade. He swallowed, and the wet noise was unnaturally loud to his own ears.

The others were all still down there, just waiting this out like them. He imagined a large portion of them had taken to napping by now. If only he could do the same.

"I guess I was tryin' to prove somethin'," he admitted.

"Ah, c'est vrais. Your parents, non?"

A few years ago, Mick would have snapped. His folks were the only way to get to him. Do what you will to him, but leave his family out of it. Now he knew that everything there was to know about him was all compiled in a single file somewhere in Medic's possession. Even the threat of the German madman wasn't enough to deter a Spy.

"M'sure you've pawed through my file anyway. So yeah, my parents don't like what I do. Thought my folks would take my job a bit more seriously if it was steady."

Why was he answering? Words kept on tumbling right out of his mouth, as if it wasn't the damn enemy in his fancy suit and polished shoes gawking with eyes that didn't miss a thing. As if someone he knew and trusted was sitting across from him. Not that such a person existed. His own teammates were alright, but he wasn't about to start confessing his deepest insecurities to any of them.

The Frenchman, at least in all outward appearances, demonstrated genuine interest. He sat with an attentive poise, sharp eyes focused. Though he searched for the slightest hint of it, Mick found no judgement there.

"Did it work?" Spy asked at length.

"Nah. Not really. Kinda hard to know your kid kills folks for a livin', I guess." He hadn't meant to answer that. "Don't matter I s'pose. Been nice, bein' able to send money home. They're gettin' older, and contract work ain't always reliable pay."

Spy switched his weight around, folding his thin legs the opposite way. He rolled his cigarette between his fingers, causing the stream of smoke lifting off the tip to waver. Mick waited for the laughing and taunts, the snide remarks about him being so attached to his parents. That would have been preferable. The staring was just making his skin itch.

Once more the quiet began creeping in. The Frenchman watched him with intent eyes, expression calm but not idle. He was looking as though Mick had just given him a very clever riddle to solve. Hell, maybe the bloody spook thought of it as one; he seemed to think Mick was a mystery for him to detangle.

"Wot? Ya got some smartass remark then make it already, ya wanker! Dunno why I bothered to tell you anything." Maybe he'd injected him with some kind of truth serum before he was healed. Spies had that sort of thing, right?

"Not at all," Spy replied, voice smooth and softer than he had ever heard it. "I confess I envy you, in a fashion."

"Jealous? Bloody idiot, were ya even listenin' to me?"

"Oui. I was. If you care to listen to me, I might even indulge you with a reason."

Mick felt his curiosity pique. Despite his better judgement, he nodded. "Right. Go on then."

"You are very attached to your parents, and in truth, I find that... charming," he said, tone soft.

Ever on guard about this subject, Mick clenched his teeth. "Mock me and I'll kill ya with body shots for a week," he threatened. Spies preferred quick deaths, that much he knew.

Spy shook his head. "Non, you misunderstand. I myself have no idea where my parents even are. I have not seen my father since I was a small child. My mother, only glimpses of her for holidays."

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but this sure as hell wasn't it. Spy was displaying emotions and memories that couldn't possibly be real, that didn't belong in a clone. The snake was just making it all up. He had to be. Using it as a new angle to throw Mick off his game, make him question what he was.

Medic had never warned what would happen if a clone suspected his existence to be unnatural. The assumption was there wasn't any risk. Perhaps the curious nature of Spy was too prevalent to be squelched by whatever process was used to duplicate him.

Mick studied the other man, and forced himself to hold his eyes for longer than he ever had. Looking at him, he could not shake the feeling that something more was there than should have been. It was frustrating and eerie and he wanted to stop. He didn't want to give a shit. It wasn't his job and it didn't change a thing, but he couldn't rid himself of the doubt.

"Why're you tellin' me this?" he asked at last.

Spy's shadow on the wall behind him stretched upward as he shrugged. "Who says it's even true? You never can tell with us spies."

Mick snorted at that. "Now that's the most honest thing you've said today." He sighed, looking at the cigarette in his hand. The thing was only half-done, and just making him crave a decent smoke instead, but he didn't want to offend Spy.

Wait. What the bloody hell? He didn't want to offend Spy? That was too much. In defiance of his own thoughts, he tossed the fancy import off the balcony and grabbed his own pack, bought right here in Teufort, out of his vest pocket.

Spy watched for a split second before snickering, which degenerated into obnoxious laughter and snorting.

"Oi, what the hell's wrong with you?"

"Oh bushman!" More snorting. "You are too much! Trying all this time to impress me when you hated it!"

Mick's cheeks were uncomfortable with heat in seconds, flaring back to his ears. He pushed down on the top of his hat, as if he could somehow hide it. "I wasn't tryin' to impress ya, ya weasel! Just didn't wanna waste it."

Spy guffawed, and the clunking sound of him pounding the crate he sat on was muffled by his own snorts. "Mon Dieu, you are blushing! My dear Sniper, you are adorable!"

"Spook, I swear you're gonna regret sittin' up here when that bell rings!" he growled.

"Oh don't be upset, petit," Spy said once his laughter was under control. "I knew they were far too refined for you. That uncouth ruggedness is part of your charm."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Either way, his face was getting redder; he could feel it. He knew Spy kept up this flirtatious nonsense just to mess with him, but that never stopped it from working anyway. Mick would never say it out loud, but the Frenchman was a handsome mongrel.

"But of course."

"Hmrph. Well save it."

Mick had heard the term 'saved by the bell' before. It was supposedly a boxing reference, but when the familiar sound of the siren blasted across the sleeping battlefield, he decided it applied here very nicely. He also decided he was an idiot, because he hesitated just long enough to let the enemy cloak. The bastard had been right there, a slash of his freshly-sharpened kukri away from Respawn. Why had he hesitated?

"Spook, ya backstabbing mongrel," he shouted, sweeping his knife through the air where he'd been. "Bloody coward!" Another swing met with no resistance, and the next caught the edge of a crate, making a loud 'thock!' as it chipped a piece away. "Shit."

He could just picture the Spy, standing with his knife ready, a smug smirk on his stupid handsome face while he watched Mick flail around. The image in his mind made him holler and slash the blade again, and harder. Losing his temper wasn't very professional, and Mick forced himself to a stop. He reached out to his other senses. Sweat trickled down his brow and his whole body heaved with heavy breaths, providing distractions that exacerbated his situation. Out on the field, miniguns whirred and bombs exploded. A drop of sweat landed in his left eye, but he refused to let it close.

Hot breath fell on the back of his neck. Fuck.

"I enjoyed our chat today, Monsieur Mundy. We should do this again, sometime."

Mick formed a tight line with his mouth, refusing to reply. He prepared for the blade to sink into his spine, or perhaps a kidney, or across his neck. Always something efficient.

Nothing happened.

After waiting until his skin itched too much to hold still any more, he took a chance and stepped back. His body moved into empty air.

Mick didn't catch sight of the BLU Spy for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know updates are too slow and getting longer and wordier every time I post but I really appreciate everyone who's still on this trainwreck, it means a lot to me, especially as TF2 has waned so much in popularity this year. Y'all are lovely! ♡


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert insufficient apologies for delay here]
> 
> In all seriousness, I've got a pretty huge thing coming up in the start of February that I've been stressing over for two years now. No one can say how it will go, and my life almost depends on it ending favorably. So nerves have affected with my already fucked mental health, in turn harming my productivity.
> 
> As always, if you're still reading this, thank you from the bottom of my heart. If it keans something to even one or two people, it's worth it to keep going for me.

Foolish. Careless. The mark of an absolute amateur. What had he been thinking, letting the Engineer get to him like that? The whole point of getting closer to the man was to get the upper hand, not to get his feet kicked out from underneath him. It was embarrassing. He was the suave, tall-dark-and-handsome, debonair gentleman who had been sweeping women and men alike off their feet practically since puberty. No graceless American should have been able to undo him like that. There was no counting how many lovers he'd taken, how many trysts he'd had. If anyone was meant to crumble under cleverly-placed hands, it would have been Engineer.

But that wasn't what happened. One rough, forceful kiss from the Texan and he'd been a mess, unable to think of anything until he'd had him. In this case, been had, figuratively and literally. Where had that nerdy little ranch hand learned how to turn a man to putty like that? He was better than this. Better than to allow some country bumpkin-undergrown cowboy-overpaid mechanic - who just happened to possess an unnecessary amount of doctorates in useless fields - seduce him.

Except he didn't think so low of Engie; if he did there wouldn't have ever been a problem. Admiration was a slippery slope.

René's hands were clenched tight enough that his knife's hilt was starting to dig into his palm through the soft kid leather of his gloves.

"Merde," he cursed under his breath, forcing his muscles to relax. In ten minutes the rounds were going to start for the day, and he was busy lurking by the lockers in a sour mood.

For the past two days since their rendezvous in the workshop, all he could think of was how incredible it had felt. He'd fooled himself into thinking perhaps Engie regretted it, but regret was his own burden. Yet he wanted more. Which was precisely he could not allow it to happen again. René was going to have to avoid his teammate until he got himself together. That did not mean he was admitting defeat. At least not permanently. He was stepping back, reassessing the situation with keener eyes, preparing a different strategy. His target was attracted to him. This was nothing new, of course, and should be utilized to his advantage as it had been countless times before. Just as soon as he got his own desires under control, he could get back to work. After all, Dell Conagher had the Administrator's secrets, and he intended to get them.

René sorted through his thoughts, his legs carrying him to the starting point on auto-pilot. He just had to focus on the strategy and it would all fall back into place. The battle would clear his head further. This was still salvageable. Everything was a mission. The Texan was his target, information his objective. Simple.

Or at least it was until he turned the corner to the supply room.

There was Engie, amiable as ever while he allowed the firebug to help him restock his toolbox. There was that damnable lopsided grin as he chuckled at the creature's infantile enthusiasm at getting to help. With his stupid yellow hardhat and his maddening, eye-concealing goggles, just going on about his day without a care. It was clear he suffered no sleep lost over their evening of passion. He even had the audacity to smile and wave a hand in René's direction as he came in.

René pretended not to notice, passing through the bustle of various teammates preparing for battle. His brusque attitude would be dismissed as nothing unusual; he rarely acknowledged his teammates before a match, preferring to tuck himself into the shadows and wait until all of BLU was otherwise occupied. Engie wouldn't take it personal. Yet there was a tinge of guilt, and a nagging urge to turn his head and look back. To do what? Something pointless, that was what.

The Administrator's voice boomed over the speakers, beginning the countdown, and René shook himself from his thoughts. He had work to do which did not involve thinking about an intelligent, handsome, deceptively clever man dressed in unflattering work clothes. He slipped behind the Heavy as the giant was suggesting his route to a grinning Medic and moved to the far side of the room.

"Mission begins in ten seconds..."

A bit of rapid movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Without turning his head, he glanced in that direction to see the Scout, his eagerness eternal, bouncing at the gates next to Demo. He never tired of this game. Perhaps because he hadn't seen a true war, without Respawn and mad doctors. René intended to make sure he never would, as much as he hated that he cared at all.

"...two...one..."

The unpleasantly loud siren sounded, the doors rolled up, and eight trained killers bolted through before him. He hung back as always, letting them draw all the attention. For a brief moment, and for not the first time in recent weeks, René entertained the idea of disguising himself with what would amount to just a simple change of suit colors and approaching Sniper. He could only guess at the results, wondering if the man would attack or simply say, 'hello'. It would have to wait, however. RED was down this week already and he was not about to exacerbate that by agitating his teammate and wasting his own precious time. He was much-needed elsewhere; namely, inside BLU's base.

While the techniques he employed were all long-since familiar to both ally and foe, they were still almost as effective as day one. When any given merc was trying to keep eight other men off his back, it was oh-so-easy for the ninth unseen one to plant a knife in said back. They were distracted, and battle was hectic. The risk of a teammate being a Spy in disguise was all too easily forgotten, and who checks empty air behind them when very visible rockets are flying their way?

Infiltration was nowhere near as thrilling as it once had been. While they had spent a few months at other bases, those stints were brief and rare. René knew the BLU's main base too well to derive much excitement from getting in. It was still his preference on days like today, if only for the relative quiet it offered in contrast to the field. Quiet, save for the beeping of a sentry. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his sapper before proceeding. Even if his sappers were discovered, when cleverly applied they did a decent amount of damage before the Engineer spotted them. Ideally, the BLU clone had a knife in his back prior to that, just as he made sure he did now.

The BLU Engineer cried out in shock more than pain as the balisong was buried directly between his shoulder blades, sinking to the frosted red and black butterfly handle. The strike severed nerves and cut his life short in seconds. A quick death that would have been merciful, save for the phantom pains that would greet the man upon Respawning. René sighed, daring to pause long enough to study the sparking, smoking remains of the sentry gun he'd dispatched. His eyes wandered to Engie's clone despite himself, and he was glad the lout had fallen face-first. Cheap copy or no, he found himself not wanting to see the man's broad features distorted in that final moment.

"Mon Dieu, get a hold of yourself," he whispered. He reached down to pull the knife out from flesh, a brief gush of blood rushing out of the wound and soaking into the blue shirt. Grabbing the briefcase and reactivating his cloak, René stepped over the body and towards his escape.

The alert was up as soon as he was on the move. This was the only part that still got his blood pumping. In less than a minute, the BLU team became aware of their impending loss and put the pieces together. Then came the rare moment when all eyes were on the Spy - or rather, attempted to be on him.

Slipping into a side corridor spared him a confrontation with the idiot Soldier, and then he was off in the opposite direction. Speed was the name of the game now; his cloak would only last so long, forcing him to duck out of sight periodically to let the illusion reset. No matter which model, all of SpyCo's devices had their limitations, and the longer he took to get back to his base, the more desperate BLU's hunt for him would become. For the moment, he was able to press up against concrete walls, invisible to the fools rushing by him. No one had started swinging their melee weapons around or spraying bullets blindly through the halls yet.

He was just within sight of the entrance in what had to be record time when his luck was cut short in the form of a human-shaped, asbestos-clad lumbering freak. René had only an instant to react, opting to make a break for the door that the Pyro wasn't guarding. He wasn't anticipating the timer on his cloak to give a weak bleep before fizzling out, leaving him completely exposed. Pyro's rubber-clad head snapped towards him, and he swore mentally, turning on his heel in an effort to avoid the creature's flamethrower, but it wasn't enough. The edge of the firebug's flame burst caught his right arm and he couldn't help the pained scream he let loose. With the BLU briefcase falling from his limp grip, he stumbled back, frantically fighting to get the fire to stop spreading. He ended up having to pull off his suit jacket to snuff the flames out, but they still singed his entire arm and shoulder. With all his gear still in the ruined jacket, he couldn’t very well discard it, but he had to leave it hanging on that side.

René began to step backwards as fast as he could as the Pyro turned towards him.

“Huddah," came an indecipherable but somehow threatening statement, the low hiss of the flamethrower serving as a reminder of René’s fallibility. The Frenchman cradled his singed arm close to his chest, the smell of his own burnt flesh tying his stomach in knots. The Pyro was between him and both exits now, his cloak was recharging, and the damned intelligence was lying at the psychopath’s feet.

René shifted his weight, running through the very short list of options that would allow him to live through this encounter. The Pyro stepped towards him with all the confidence to be expected as his fiery victory seemed well in hand. René kicked his legs backwards and pushed himself up to his feet once more, stepping back and keeping his distance from the masked madman.

He heard the shouts of BLUs in the corridor behind him, and took the only path left that made sense. He feinted towards the briefcase before dashing left, taking just enough time to make sure the Pyro fell for it before making a break for the further door. A hot blast of air knocked him off his feet and into the air before landing with a painful thud on the hard ground outside, indicating the Pyro hadn’t taken the bait long enough. He scrambled onto his back as the suited menace emerged from the doorway and into the open air.

Mercifully, his watch gave a faint click at that moment and he hurriedly cloaked, rolling out of the way just as a burst of flame charred the patch of earth he'd been laying on. René scrambled away from the Pyro and back into the building just as a wrathful, muffled bellow could be heard. It seemed that Pyro was displeased his quarry had not been roasted as planned.

He heard as much as felt the heat as the gas-masked creature bathing the entry to the BLU base in scorching flames. René glanced at the BLU briefcase sitting a short distance away from him. Sure, he could snatch it up, make another attempt at escape, but his right hand was useless at the moment and he didn’t dare tempt fate one-handed. He was bold, but not reckless.

Even though it seemed the lunatic had run out of gas with his over-aggressive attempts to relocate him, he was not out of danger yet. Gritting his teeth, René threw himself back behind the wall. He had to hold his breath to keep from making any noise as the pain shot through him. Of every injury type he'd sustained - and he was sure he'd experienced them all - burns were the one he could never quite stomach. Nothing matched the deep, agonizing way the pain gnawed into him, slow and persistent. Then of course there was the nauseating odor of burnt flesh, terrible enough even without the sickening memories it brought back.

René was forced to deny his aching lungs air even longer as the creaking of a thick asbestos suit passed through the doorway. The Pyro mumbled to himself as he swiveled his head around, no more than a meter from where René had crouched. As the abomination poked his head into the hall, René backpedaled along the concrete floor, putting a few meters between them. Even when cloaked, Pyro had a way of spotting him at times, and his heart lurched with each violent, sped up beat. Then the long, blank stare ended. Pyro scooped the briefcase off the ground before waddling away towards the intel room.

In his younger days, pain or no, he could have held his breath another minute. Now his lungs heaved when he finally took in air. His eyes watered from the effort to remain quiet, from the pain, and perhaps a bit from his own humiliation.

Struggling to his feet, somehow with one arm wrapped around the other useless one, René made his way back out the door and across the scorched earth to the bridge back to base. He'd made it into the RED courtyard and halfway up the stairs to the Resupply room when the sound of familiar beeping stopped him in his tracks.

René crept up to the edge of the room to see a sentry guarding Engie as he worked on a Dispenser. From the looks of things, it would be ready soon, he only had to linger until then. By then his cloak would be gone, though, and the Texan would see him like this. Burned like a bad prime rib after failing to win them the round. Even if he could slink by the Texan, the sliding door of the Resupply would give him away instantly.

As if shame could be heard, Engie chose that moment to look up. René spun back around the doorway in the direction he'd come from just as his cloak fell away. Why did he care what the man saw? They'd all been injured, and if he wracked his brain René would unquestionably find a more asinine predicament than this that his teammate had seen him in. His arm wailed in protest, he was out of breath, and relief was just around the corner in the most literal sense.

"Ha! Yer in fer it now, ye wee lamb!" Demoman's voice hollered from further ahead, though he was unsure which. Probably his own, but René wasn't going to hang around to find out.

He'd simply have to cross the courtyard and take the stairs down to the sub-level Resupply. Just move fast and get it over with. His cloak would be recharged in just a second, but he decided to move ahead. All the while, he was berating himself for the sheer idiocy of this move.

This was an even bigger problem than he'd thought. If his first impulse was going to avoid the man on the battlefield, that was a whole different issue than planning to just distance himself. Now as he darted along the walkway between one Resupply room and the stairs into the base, René realized it wasn't merely his pride that had made him fumble. He'd felt a genuine concern that Engie might be... what? Disappointed in him?

Distracted by his concerns, René ran straight into his last stupid mistake of the match; the BLU Scout, a glossy red briefcase in one hand and a Sandman in the other. He yelped as he fell backwards, barely catching himself in time. Lively gray-blue eyes a bit too much like his own flashed with amusement and a buck-toothed grin widened.

"Hehey! Look what I found! Disguise this, ya prick!"

The bat swung down at his head, and made a dull crack on impact. A sick wetness covered his face and a pounding pressure threw him into darkness.

Close to the end of a match, Respawn lagged, making it that much more excruciating to go through. When René checked his watch, he noted it him taken almost fifteen minutes, but it felt like a hundred. His head throbbed, and he imagined his brain threatening to bleed out his skull in unpleasant ways. That of course was a bad image to have, and he fought back a gag. Phantom pains in his arm tricked him into lifting his hand there, but his suit was whole again, and his flesh fully healed. He was fed up with this, knowing he had to walk back out there into this pretend war. The objective had changed, but everything else would be the same. René reached his hand out again, this time to brace himself against the wall, and wished he could just sit on that damn bench.

The loud pounding of cleated sneakers on the hardwood floors made him look up. Scout - the real one, the one who mattered - was bolting into the Resupply room. The boy was about to paw through his locker when he stopped, squinting at René.

"Jesus, Spy. You okay, man?" he asked, with something akin to genuine concern.

"Oui, of course," he sneered. "Respawning is always such a pleasure, after all." René cringed inwardly at his snideness. Just once, would it kill him not to act like he hated the kid? He'd learned his role of disdain too well.

Scout scrunched his nose up. "Yeah, okay, fuck you too." He turned away and kicked the bottom of his locker, causing it to pop open, and threw his scattergun inside. Merde, why couldn't his mother have taught him to take just a little bit better care of his things?

"The doors have handles for a reason," he sighed, shifting so his elbow supported him against the wall. He dropped his head into his gloved palm, rubbing his temples. This headache wasn't going to be over soon.

"Okay, first of all, screw you. Second of all, it broke. It only latches on the bottom anyway."

Of course. "Maybe if you stopped--"

A loud metallic clang cut him off, the making his ears ring and his head pound. Scout had turned back around and was carelessly shoving ammo into his so-called 'Force A' Nature'.

"--if you stopped slamming the damn door!" he finished, temper giving way to a shout before he collected himself again. "Then it wouldn't be broken."

"Okay, whatever. Look, I got bigger issues, like my freakin' guns gettin' jammed."

Oh, but the restraint it took not to throttle him at times. To say he was disappointed in the boy would be unfair. It was not as if he had been around to impart any of his sensibilities on the boy. He was more frustrated with his own choices, though whether or not his presence in Scout's formative years would have affected his ability to be patient with anything at all was anyone's guess.

"Merde, give me that." René let out a weary sigh and pushed himself away from the wall.

After a suspicious glare, Scout passed him the gun. "Like you know so freakin' much about guns. This here's a real gun, not like that little pea-shooter you got."

Well, he couldn't be referring to Ambassador. "I presume you mean the Enforcer? I'll have you know that she is plenty effective, and particularly handy when one needs to smuggle firearms into places they are not allowed."

"Pfft," Scout scoffed deliberately. "Like who wants to go somewhere guns ain't allowed?"

René rolled his eyes as he looked over the weapon. It needed oiling and cleaning, but that was the last thing he expected Scout to know how to do. This was what many fathers considered important bonding time with their sons, things like teaching them about guns and women. His attempt at the latter a year ago had been a disaster, but here they were at the former. In the middle of a battle.

"This can't be properly fixed right now. You'll have to use your backup." Frowning, he lifted an eyebrow at the younger man. "Unless of course you've abused that one as well?"

"Look, man, I don't break all my shit! Jesus!" Scout snatched his gun back and returned to his locker before René could argue. In the end, he just picked up his scattergun again.

René just watched, feeling as far away from the boy as he ever had. He was supposed to offer to help him clean the weapons later. Maybe have a drink with him. Actually tell him who I am.

Idly, he wondered if Engie's father had done those fatherly things, or if that task had fallen to the man's grandfather after his father was estranged from the family. Some men just weren't cut out for being parents, it seemed.

"Yo, Spy?"

The voice jerked him back to the present. "Hm?"

"...Are ya gonna be okay? Like, seriously... ya look worse than just a bad respawn."

"...I will be fine. It is just a headache.” He waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, but should you happen to see your counterpart before me, do tell him I said bonjour?"

Scout snorted, but it wasn't a rude gesture. "Sure, Spy. I'll do that."

With that, Scout bounded off out of the Resupply room, leaving René with yet another thing he would prefer to avoid thinking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeaaaah there it is. For people who don't like dad!Spy, I'm reaaaallly sorry. It's been a planned theme for this since day one.
> 
> Special thanks to thewolfbroughtindoors for helping write the Pyro scene in this. It was much needed since she, you know, actually plays the game lol.


	10. Chapter 10

Dell yawned as he pushed his door shut behind him. He should have tried to get more work done in his shop, but it was impossible to concentrate in the heat. Even a born and raised Texan had his limits, and the workshop was a goddamn oven. Not that his room was exactly an oasis, mind you, but it was an improvement nevertheless.  

Goggles and hardhat were tossed aside, followed by his glove. No point in turning on the light; the clear night sky outside his window lit up the small room enough for him to undress and collapse on his bed. 

The first strap of his overalls flopped off his shoulder, but as he reached for the second, a familiar sensation put him on alert. Hairs on the back of his neck and arms prickled, and as he focused, he was sure he caught the faint smell of smoke. Tensing, he took a step back toward the door without turning around. Then his view went to black as a solid form materialized in front of him.

"Bonne nuit," Spy purred. "I hope you don't mind, I let myself in."

Dell shook himself out of his startled state. He did mind, of course, and he wasn't thrilled with Spy's timing either. But kicking him out might lead to the damn fool spending another month dodging him. The past week had been ridiculous enough. 

"So, ya finally decided to talk to me?" he huffed, reaching for the light switch.

Spy's hand darted out to catch his arm to stop him, and the other found its way between Dell's legs. "I am not here to 'talk', laborer."

Before he could process what was happening, the rogue had him pressed up against his door. 

"What the...? Spy, hold your dang horses!" he stuttered. 

"Mmm, but why? We are alone, non?"

The accent in his sultry voice was thicker than usual. As he leaned in, the distinct sweet aroma of wine lingered alongside the usual cigarette smell on his breath. He'd never known Spy to drink to the point of intoxication, but he must have had enough in him to lower some of his inhibitions.

For a moment, Dell considered giving in to the touch of that hand. Images of their night in his shed were already flashing through his head, demanding an encore. His body would gladly have complied, but he'd hate himself for it later.

"Well for one, I thought ya were upset." Dell huffed and shoved Spy's teasing hand away. Then he yanked his arm free and turned on the light. He wasn't having this discussion in the dark.

Not surprisingly, Spy appeared a bit perturbed as the incandescent glow from the lamp washed over his face. In the light, Dell could see he still wore his mask, but his jacket, tie, and waistcoat were nowhere to be seen.

"'Upset'? Why, pray tell, were you under that impression?" he asked, folding his arms. 

Dell suppressed an eyeroll. "Oh I dunno, maybe 'cause ya spent over a week avoidin' me. Got yourself in trouble on the field a dozen times just so ya wouldn't run into me."

A flicker of surprise passed in Spy's gray-blue eyes and he swallowed visibly before speaking. "If I 'avoided' you on the field, it was because my job entails remaining unseen--"

"Oh don't give me that shit, Spy. Ya ran right past a dispenser with your damn arm burnt off." When the taller man's eyes widened, Dell shook his head. "Yes, I saw ya. So much for remainin' unseen, huh?"

"As far as I knew, the enemy Pyro was still on my tail. Would you prefer I lead him to you next time?"

"Pretty sure my sentry could've helped us handle him," he replied, tone flat.

Spy glanced over Dell's shoulder at the door and back to him, barely long enough to notice. He would have missed it, were he not scrutinizing the man like a hawk. It was not all that unusual; the taller man always had his eyes out for an escape route. Given everything up until then, he expected him to run at any second. Part of him couldn't blame him. While Spy had been making himself scarce, Dell had plenty of time to think. Playing their affair over in his mind, it had become clear just how domineering he'd behaved. 

"...Awe hell, stretch. I ain't gonna argue 'bout this. The thing is... well I figured ya wouldn't want to come back around after..." Dell paused, at a loss for the right words. Apologies weren't his strong suit.

Spy remained where he stood, slender arms still crossed, and a steady, mildly curious gaze fixed on him. "After what? I very much enjoyed our previous coital activities."

"Then why this cold shoulder for two weeks?"

"I was not in the mood to socialize," he said with a shrug.

Dell couldn't stand this passive aggressive nonsense. It was hard enough apologizing without Spy playing his usual games. 

"Look, stretch, I know I went too far, all right? I shouldn't have made ya take the mask off. I guess I got a bit... overbearing?" If he was being honest with himself, he'd _wanted_ to see Spy at his most vulnerable. Guilt was not something he had expected to come along with that.

Spy's brows lifted and the surprise returned, though his demeanor seemed a touch softer now. The guards were lowering, if only for a moment. The minutes stretched on, unforgiving, as the Frenchman regarded him with genuine curiosity.

When no reply came, he sucked in a long breath and moved past the other man to the desk at the opposite end of the room. It was a subtle enough message, but Spy would understand; he wasn't trapping him there.

"Ya just... You're a pain in the ass sometimes, and ya damn well know it, 'cause you're doin' it on purpose," Dell continued. "I suppose I ain't used to folks gettin' away with gettin' under my skin like that. But I don't want this to be some kinda contest, with the two of us always tryin' to get all the control."

The edge of one dark gray eyebrow quirked upward, and Spy tilted his head just a bit. "'This'?" he mimicked. "And what is it that you intend to call _this?"_

Dell had considered that plenty of times. How the hell was he supposed to define it? Something born from a breaking point of sexual frustration, but not without affection and respect deep down. He didn't know the name for that. No matter how many times he ran through the thought process, at the end he only knew one thing; what it wasn't.

"Heck if I know," he scoffed. "But it sure ain't professional anymore, is it?"

His honesty earned him a very small, appreciative smile from the rogue. "Non, I do not think it is."

"And it'd be damn stupid to give it a name. We shouldn't even continue."

Spy faltered just long enough for his disappointment to show. "Do you wish to return to a strictly professional relationship?"

"I didn't say that, now did I?" 

Spy blinked several times, processing the apology for what it was. Then he let his arms drop. He stepped further into the room, approaching Dell where he leaned back on his desk. "I... Thank you. I know that wasn't easy."

"Nothin' ever is," Dell said. He lifted his left hand, the fingers ghosting over Spy's.

The taller man accepted, slipping his slender hand into Dell's tentative hold. "I would not be here tonight had I not enjoyed myself but... for now I would prefer to keep the mask on."

Noting an almost sheepish lilt in Spy's voice, Dell placed his other hand against his hip, rubbing over the ridge with his mechanical thumb. "Fair enough."

"It has become... something like a piece of armor, if you will," Spy confessed, eyes trailing to where their hands were loosely clasped. That alone seemed like such a out of place gesture for men like them. Almost tender. But it clearly was giving the rogue some small amount of comfort. 

Spy continued, still avoiding eye contact. "I am well aware that among my teammates especially, the 'protection' it offers is more symbolic than absolute." 

"Everyone's afraid of somethin'."

Stiffening, Spy tilted his head to look at him finally, eyes narrowed with indignance. "This is not some insubstantial phobia, laborer," he snapped. "I am not merely 'afraid' of discovery without reason. My entire life has been dependent on my ability to keep my secrets."

Dell huffed out a long breath. He didn't have the energy for this rant tonight. He was reluctant to let go of Spy's hand; it felt like he was anchoring the man with that fragile touch. So he lifted the Gunslinger to the Frenchman's lips, just barely letting the index finger touch.

"Shush," he ordered, but not too harshly. "I understand, all right? Maybe not as much as if it  were me, but I know ya've been through hell and back. My sayin' you can trust me don't mean much."

Once more, Spy relaxed, his slender body leaning closer to Dell's. "...I am sorry, mon ami. Perhaps in time."

For a second split in half, Dell felt a strange giddiness in his chest. His heart squeezed and then fluttered after sending the sensation up to his throat to tighten. _What the hell was that?_  

Did the thought Spy letting him get closer really matter all that much? If it did, maybe he ought to be rethinking proceeding with... whatever it was they were doing. 

"S'quite all right, stretch," was all he could think to say though with Spy drawing in closer still. 

His body was pressing into him now, and the man's ungloved right hand pivoted to grasp Dell's hand palm-to-palm. The need coming from him was raw, but less impatient than before. 

"You know," he hummed, "I have had a few lovers, but no one has ever been quite like you."

Dell ignored the downgrading of what must have been dozens to 'a few'. It didn't matter. "And is that a good thing?" he asked. 

He allowed Spy to rest his weight against him, nuzzling his chin atop his head. The height difference could be annoying, but at least he had a good angle to start leaving little nips on his neck through the balaclava's fabric.

"Oh, it is quite good. I never expected to enjoy being manhandled like that."

Dell couldn't resist a little grin against his neck. "I had a feelin'." His smile didn't fade as more grazing of his teeth over the lycra drew shivers from the Frenchman. "Don't always hafta be rough, though.

"Oh? Show me what else you can do then," he breathed.

"Be glad to."

 Somehow the heat he'd found so unbearable up until that point was all but banished when Spy's lips found his.

* * *

As one of two mercs who actually cared about his appearance, René was usually the last to arrive in the commons come breakfast. Having had the best night's sleep he could remember since coming to Teufort, if not longer, had only made him more reluctant to get out of bed. By the time he pushed open the kitchen doors, no other teammate was in sight. All were out practicing, leaving him a peaceful morning to himself.  

He gave a wistful smile at his luck and strolled over to find there was still coffee left. Not that it was ever any good, but that could be rectified with the creamer he grabbed from the fridge and a handful of sugar packets. There was even a clean mug for a change. It must have been Pyro's turn to do dishes. The firebug was surprisingly reliable in his chores.

René didn't pay much attention to how much cream he dumped into his coffee. Three packets of sugar followed, then a forth for good measure. As he stirred, humming to himself, he indulged in a few choice memories of the previous evening.

His mind kept wandering back to a particular image of a charming Texan, sprawled across his bed naked and satisfied. He'd be enjoying that image for some time. A shame he couldn't have accepted the invitation to stay the night. Too risky, he'd said. What he had not said was that the risk wasn't getting caught, but of becoming too attached. Given his mood, that was probably already a lost cause. René shook his head, meaning to scold himself for being so enraptured by the Engineer, but the fond smile refused to fade. 

"Guten Morgen, Herr Spy!" 

The high, cheery voice that sounded behind him made René jolt. A few spatters of coffee decorated the counter where the spoon had struck the inside of his mug and sloshed some out. Merde, he did not need his morning spoiled by his mad scientist of a coworker. 

"Bonjour," he responded crisply, wiping the counter and then setting his spoon on a napkin.

"You are certainly in a good mood this morning." Medic stepped in beside him, taking a mug for himself before eyeing the creamer and empty sugar packets. "And as health-conscious as ever, I see." He gestured to the additives with a sigh.

"Is there something I can do for you, Docteur?"

The German poured himself a cup of coffee and pivoted to lean sideways against the counter. He usually drank tea, but occasionally he settled for coffee. Always black. "Don't tell me you're still angry about your clone."

For all that he enjoyed playing the absent-minded professor, there was plenty that Medic didn't miss. There had always been a tension between them, due to neither being comfortable  with the other knowing all his secrets. The doctor had still managed to notice a change in René's attitude towards him, it seemed.

He took a deep breath to compose himself, still refusing to make eye contact with Medic. "I could not care less what you do to any of their team, but would it have been so difficult to put my files in a more secure place?" 

"I have done so several times, mein Freund, if you will recall. Someone always manages to rummage through them." He took a sip of his coffee and René could feel his eyes burning into him. "Surely your memory is not so conveniently selective, hm?"

There was nothing he could say to that. Of course his clone possessed all his skills, and was just as good. The truth of it was grating. René bristled and took his mug, turning away from the counter. He left the kitchen, presuming Medic would follow whether he was wanted or not. Seating himself in his usual spot at the end of the table, he grabbed the Teufort Times. 

Medic had a mildly smug expression on his face when he did, of course, follow. René watched him over the brim of his mug as he swallowed his coffee. 

"I know you are concerned Spy, but he can't do anything. You must realize that," Medic said after a moment. There was an uncharacteristic softness in his tone.

René's eyes widened and he struggled not to choke. The mug clunked against the tabletop as he composed himself. Unless he was mistaken, Medic was actually trying to reassure him. "...Non, I do not 'realize' that. He knows everything about me, more than any file could tell you all, and he has no reason to keep any of it to himself."

"And who is he going to tell?" Medic gestured with one hand out, palm upward. "He can't leave here and he knows it. She'd hunt him down like a dog. Besides, the memories may be fading now."

René quirked an eyebrow. "'May'?"

"It's not an exact science. That's part of the research. And part of what I was trying to measure while he was my guest."

Again an involuntary shudder ran through him. The thought of being held captive in the way his counterpart had been was horrifying. To be so out of control like that, unable to move or even feel much of anything. No concept of time or any chance of saving oneself.  

"'Research'," he parroted. "Of course."

"Don't start this again." Medic dropped his hand, leaned back in his chair, and gave a dramatic sigh. "I can't tell you anything. And neither can our hard-hatted friend, by the way. So I suggest you stop pestering him all the time."

_Merde_. René gulped, very thankful he hadn't been drinking that time. Between Engie and Medic, he was starting to feel like he'd lost his touch, they caught him off guard so often. At least with Engie, there was something enjoyable to be gained.

"Ja," Medic continued when he didn't respond. "I have noticed. He has work to do, and much of that work involves _my_ work. Which means that if his productivity is hurt, so is mine."

Thankfully, Medic had missed the other reason he spent so much time around their Texan coworker. That made dismissing this easy. René composed himself and folded the paper again, letting out a light laugh. "Mon Dieu, Docteur, must I be viewed with such suspicion?"

Medic scowled. "What is it they say...? 'If the shoe fits'?"

He huffed. "I merely have discovered a colleague with whom I can have an enjoyable conversation. One who is not perpetually drunk, or an imbecile, or ill-mannered, or pondering new ways to harvest my internal organs."

"Bitte, with the amount of tar in you, I couldn't use your organs for anything but paving roads," Medic said, only to laugh at his own joke.

René ignored the jab. Even if it weren't somewhat true, it wasn't worth his energy. "My _point_ being, I enjoy camaraderie from time to time." 

"Ja, fine." Medic batted his hand, still snickering at himself. "Just let the man get some work done."

"Oui. Very well." Best to play along, though he was going to have to be more careful it seemed. With how closely those two worked off the field, it could become a problem should the doctor get more curious.

For a moment, both men drank their coffee without speaking, an oddly companionable silence settling in. René kept his nose buried back in the paper, having handed off the health section to his teammate. He didn't dislike Medic so much as he did not entirely trust him. Not even because he suspected he had malicious intent. His scientific curiosity was so insatiable that it defied any other boundaries. If the German could act more, well, normal from time to time, like this, he wouldn't mind his company. 

The longer they sat there, however, René found himself getting restless. Medic's words about the BLU having no chance of escape irritated him when they should have eased his nerves. After a few more minutes of silence, the nagging feeling got the better of him.

"With my abilities, I see no reason that BLU imposter could not easily escape," René mused aloud, surprising himself. 

"Was?" Medic blinked up from an article on some new medication's test release. "Oh, I'm sure he could," he responded, processing the comment before René had to repeat himself.

"The Administrator is but one old woman, I doubt she can keep up with one such as myself." He almost cringed at his own false bravado, setting his paper aside for the last time. He knew very well what their boss was capable of.

Medic chuckled, an air of superiority in his mannerism. "Is it so hard to fathom she might be a better spy than yourself."

As a matter of fact, it wasn't. It was just a significant blow to his pride to think on it. Grunting his indignation, René shifted in his chair. He tapped the hard linoleum surface of the table, drumming his fingers a few times on it. 

"Even if by some miracle he evaded her long enough, there is always the recall chip," Medic supplied with mild disinterest.

René felt a chill run down his spine. Both Medics had fitted their teammates with some very questionable 'enhancements'. Whatever the doctor referred to now might be inside him as well. It certainly wasn't confidential, though, and he decided to push the subject.

"And that is?"

Medic rolled his eyes, letting out a very exasperated, deliberate sigh, looking every bit the college professor forced to explain something to a child. René was used to the display, and mirrored it with a subtle roll of his own eyes.

"The recall chip has two functions, and was installed in all the clones," Medic began to explain. "If they attempt to pass respawn range during battle, it will automatically pull them back in. But it is also a tracking device. Unless your counterpart intends to rip out his own heart to find the chip..." Medic shrugged as he trailed off.

"Just the clones have these?" 

Deep blue eyes studied him for several seconds before Medic gave yet another lift and fall of his shoulders. "What do you think? The first function keeps us from permanent death during a match, after all. Though I imagine being broken down and re-pieced while alive is exceptionally unpleasant."

The German did not appear the least bit sympathetic over such a thought, however. That morbid, excited glint of curiosity danced in his eyes as he finished his coffee. 

"Don't look so distressed, Herr Spy. It is not as if you intended on fleeing!" he said, tittering. With that he shoved the paper aside and got up from the table to deposit his mug in the sink. 

Passing back through the dining area, Medic shot him an unsettling, broad grin and waved. René had to wonder if he was done toying with the BLU Spy after all. If he did have more in store for him, he doubted it would be any kinder than before. He stared at his mug, twisting it in his gloved hand. Another swallow was left, but it was cold by that point. Why did it matter to him what happened to his clone? He already had all the assurances he needed that the fake him would not be any danger. That had to be enough.

He closed his eyes, and there was Engie's lopsided smile just waiting for him as if it were stuck to his eyelids. Something about it calmed him instantly, made him forget his other concerns. The fact that the silly little man had such an affect on him was frightening. Already René was feeling able to _trust_ him, and that terrified him. Perhaps their whole relationship was destined to be some sort of paradox. Well, there were worse ways to be. 

René followed the Medic's same path to the kitchen and dropped off his mug. His mood was still somewhat in tact, and he was sure a quick visit with Engie would repair it before the first match started. He had almost stopped caring about his original mission with the Texan. The Administrator could keep her secrets a while longer.


	11. Chapter 11

Deafened by the whistle of the rocket that had just careened past him into his perch, Mick sat frozen against the wall. His other senses would have to be enough to alert him as he waited for the ringing to die down. So far, it seemed like the BLU Soldier had just kept going. 

Debris from the explosion was scattered all around him, including the unfortunate breakage of a few jars of jarate. Brilliant. 

Ears still ringing, Mick pushed himself up and away from the wall back to his feet. Pain shot up his left thigh the moment he moved, sending him stumbling forward and almost knocking him off his feet. Cursing under his breath, Mick looked down to see a large chunk of splintered wood gouged deep into the muscles. Blood soaked into his pants all around it, yet somehow he only now noticed the wet, sticky feeling. It was too bloody hot out to feel much of anything. He didn't have a medkit with him, and if he called for Medic now, the Soldier might still be around. He was just going to have to tough it out.

Mick huffed and, gritting his teeth against the pain, half walked, half dragged himself towards the stairs. Hell if he knew how he was going to get down those stairs, though. Something clinked and clattered as his foot knocked it along, not quite sounding like metal or glass, and he squinted at the floor.

"...Aw, bugger."

There, lying in the splinters and dust, with the handle broken off and a sizable v-shaped piece clipping the chipped red #1, was his favorite mug. The team had given him that years ago in celebration of his top performance for a full week. Back when the job mattered. Back when everything was simple, when he could pretend he didn't feel a damn thing. When camaraderie was as close to sentimental as he would ever have to get.

"Guess them days're over now, ain't they?" he muttered.

"What days would those be?"

Bloody hell. Mick grabbed for his belt, unhitching his kukri from the leather sheath. "How long ya been lurkin' around this time?"

Spy didn't reveal himself, but he didn't need to. "I just got here. I heard the explosion so..." He trailed off. 

Curling his fingers around the kukri's hilt helped keep Mick calm. "And what? Ya here for easy pickin's, then?"

Stupid of him to think the Spy was going to give him a break just because of their bizarre discussion three nights ago. Part of him was still wondering if that had all bee a dream. Either way, they had agreed to keep suspicions down, they would have to keep killing each other.

"...Actually I was curious how our Soldier noticed you. This building is - was - one of your best spots." 

Mick really did not want to answer that. It was bad enough he'd missed a clean shot at the man. Granted it was only because he'd gone and pinched his bloody thumb again trying to reload too fast after taking out the Demoman.

"Not all of us has a fancy watch to hide with," he grumbled by way of an excuse.

As if to concede his point, the Spy's cloak dissipated into a thin blue haze, revealing the familiar slender Frenchman. He didn't speak again for a few moments, but his eyes had settled on Mick's leg. The expression carried hints of something akin to mild concern.

"That looks bad," he remarked finally.

"No shit." Mick didn't intend to sound so irritable, but he wished the Spy would just get on with it.

_You could always attack first,_ he reminded himself. He pushed that thought aside.

"I'm not sure when it was restocked last, but there is a medical supply kit--"

"Spook." 

Spy's eyes snapped up to his face at his nickname. His countenance was strangely morose, and he was stalling.

"Thought we said we were gonna do this," Mick said, his point clear. He didn't let the eye contact slip. Funny how not that long ago, it had been Spy reminding him to keep it 'professional'. "Just get to it, then, yeah?"

There was no mistaking the regret in Spy's eyes, but the other man nodded and reached for his knife. "Oui."

The Frenchman lunged, not bothering to recloak as he flipped his dagger blade out in an imperceptible flourish. Mick knew speed wasn't an option, especially given the way his leg was throbbing. If he tried to dodge, he'd just fall. At least a full dodge. He decided to brave more pain instead, taking the last chance he could to pivot away from Spy's attack. The intended point of contact - his heart - remained safe, and the blade instead sank deep into his left bicep. 

He growled and cursed loudly, but shook it off in a rush of adrenaline. The same burst of energy gave him the strength to push Spy back and off of him, sending him crashing to the floor. All his years of killing made his last move flow without hesitation, and he thrust his kukri down towards Spy's chest. 

A sick, wet sound punctuated the end of the fight, the curved blade of his kukri plunging through muscle and flesh clean through until it clunked into the wood beneath his opponent. In his struggle to move with his bum leg, he had missed an opportunity for a quicker kill. From the point of entry, too low and far to the right side, Spy was liable to bleed out with one lung filling up with blood.

"Shit." Mick yanked the blade back, grimacing at the grotesque sound and the gurgled grunt from Spy. He knelt down next to him, forgetting about how he was going to get back up after the fact. "Hold on, I'll... speed this up."

Before he could lift the edge of his knife to Spy's throat, the man's gloved hand grabbed at him. "Non... wait... I promised."

Mick blinked. "You what?"

"Heh... wanted your kiss... that badly, did you?" Spy coughed and blood collected at the corners of his mouth. 

Mick shook his head, disbelieving. "This ain't a joke, Spook."

The handle of his knife still pressed into the ungloved palm of his right hand. He was supposed to give a clean, quick death. Slit his throat and minimize the pain. But his arm wouldn't move. Spy's hand grabbed at his clothes, seeking purchase. 

"Non, it is. This whole... existence... is a joke." Spy's hand clutched at the collar of his vest, yanking on the worn leather. "Sniper... closer."

He obeyed, only for another yank on his vest to jerk him down to where lips wet with blood pressed against his. 

It was a rough and clumsy kiss, with the Spy weakening by the second. He tasted salty and metallic, of blood and sweat. Yet Mick didn't pull away. Not until the mouth against his no longer moved. Only a faint wisp of warm air passing over his own lips told him Spy was still alive. He tilted his head back to look at him. The rogue's eyes were glassy and wet.

"...M'sorry," he muttered dumbly. 

He pressed the blade down until it broke through the mask and sliced into the flesh beneath. One clean sweep across sent the Spy back to his base.

Mick's head was spinning, and he doubted it was mere blood loss causing it. He'd thought Spy had been joking all this time. Just messing with Mundy, like always. That kiss had not been a joke though. There was want in it, and he couldn't separate which parts of him were buzzing from shock and which from his injuries. Having become somewhat numb to it, he almost forgot the small blade still stuck in his arm until he absently reached up to rub at the slight discomfort.

"...Oh. Right." 

Mick tugged it out, staring at the way the blood gushed out, then at the way it made the black steel glisten, still wet. Christ, he felt weird. How was any of this real? He was in a bloody coma, that's what it was. He wake up in a year, five years, a damn decade later, to find Medic whistling away while getting ready to harvest his organs.

"Nah. Doc wouldn't even wait an hour," he chuckled to himself, though it failed to amuse him. 

One thing was for sure, though. He really needed to get out of where he was. Somewhere he was properly concealed. What he wouldn't give for the day to be over, so he could go back to his camper and just think. Maybe the Spy was still just playing around. He was, after all, the master of deceit. In which case, didn't Mick just look like a bloody idiot? Nothing new about that. 

Bending his good leg up first, he somehow managed to stand. Somehow he'd forgotten Spy's dagger was still in his hand until he bent to grab his own weapon. He sighed and wiped it clean on his sleeve. Closing the blade guard, he slipped the knife into his vest and hobbled off, still a bit dazed, to find a health kit or Medic.

* * *

If Spy knew he was sitting on the steps to his camper in the setting sun deliberating over the day's events, Mick just knew he'd be smug over it. Then again the weasel probably did know, because of course he did. By then, he'd be sitting in some fancy lounge area just like his RED counterpart's. He'd have one of his special imported cigarettes dangling from his thin lips. In his hands, a gentleman's magazine; at his side, a glass of whatever drink he fancied. There was a glint of satisfaction in those eyes as he perused the magazine, in truth not really reading it at all. 

Mick scowled and shook his head to clear it of the mental image before it got any clearer. "Wanker," he grunted. He looked down at the warm beer in his hand and scrunched up his nose. "Aw, piss." 

Shrugging, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow anyway. It was about as unpleasant as expected, but alcohol was alcohol just the same. He didn't need to get drunk. Just something to calm the nerves and take the edge off, as they said. 

A few minutes passed, and he caught himself nibbling at his lip again. It was no use. He couldn't shake the memory of Spy's lips against his own. Mick was no prince charming like the Frenchman was. He tended to be at a loss with romance, but he had enough experience to know when a kiss was fake. Until that moment, he'd been convinced the rogue was just toying with him. The amusement he got from Mick's discomfort was more than evident. Hell, he flaunted such successes. But nothing about that kiss had felt like a joke. It was desperate and pleading, and it spoke volumes about what the Spy really hoped to achieve with his actions. 

All this time he'd simply been waiting. Waiting for Mick to stop being such a coward and decide what he wanted. Problem was, he still didn't know. Not really. So there he was, sitting and mulling it all over. 

Whenever he was having trouble making a decision as a boy, his mum always told him to make a list of the things he was sure of. Of course those were always simpler choices, like which day to go fishing and which day for chores. The method was solid enough, though. He wasn't about to put any of this on paper. Sitting right where he was, he made a mental list. 

First, he was attracted to men. That was something he'd come to terms with long ago. Women were okay, too, but even with all the taboo, he liked how much simpler men made things. If you knew which bar to go to, eventually someone would meet your eyes. No one had to say anything, and when it was done, you could part ways without any fuss. Mick preferred that. Society didn't exactly welcome men walking hand-in-hand, and even if that wasn't an issue, he was too clumsy for something serious. Maybe that was the real reason he'd become an assassin. It was an excuse to avoid all that complicated messy stuff. Well so much for that. Now he was getting all hot for a bloke on the job.

Which brought him to the second point. Or maybe it was part of the first. Whatever. 

Mick was attracted to Spy. Not his coworker, but his rival. Despite the fact that he looked and sounded exactly like his clone, Mick still saw nothing but an objectively handsome man when he looked at the RED Spy. Which meant this was more than just physical; it was situational. Shit, even worse, the attraction was emotional. Mick was not equipped to deal with that in the slightest. He was a loner, awkward at best in friendships. Although teammates had managed to drag out his goofier side more and more as the years past, he still was fond of peace and quiet. Spending too much time around others just drained him. 

All that 'feelings' nonsense aside, there was a much more concise fact he kept circling back to. Spy wasn't just another man. He was an enemy. A man Mick was paid to kill, as per his job as a professional assassin. Even if he was considering trying to get out of Mann Co. and his contract, it went against everything he had built his life around to let anything happen between himself and Spy. Helping him was a matter of human decency, but beyond that, he had to keep a distance.

That just about settled it then. The abstracts of attraction and emotion were gray and undefined. Troublesome things that left him reeling. But his job, that was concrete. It made sense, it was something he could define and apply, and he was bloody good at it. If he strayed from his contract, it was because he was being asked to step outside of his personal standards. Mick Mundy was no sadist. 

"Sorry, Spook," he said, wondering if in fact it might contain the Spy. He hadn't spotted any footprints in the sand, but the rogue was clever.

Most of the orange and gold had sunk below the horizon, replaced by the darkest of blues and silver specks of stars. He must have been so lost in thought he forgot to really look at the sky at all. Shame; it had been a nice sunset.

With a long, drawn-out breath through his nostrils, Mick stood and stretched. He downed the rest of his beer with a grimace and turned to go into his camper. At least the interior had started to cool off a bit. 

Glass clinked and threatened to break where he tossed the empty bottle into a bag with a dozen others. Mick didn't pay it much mind, eyes sliding down the narrow space between the cupboards and the dinette up to his bed. Sleep sounded too good to be true. In this case, it was, as he passed the small gaslight stove and realized he hadn't eaten any supper. An audible groan passed his lips and he entertained the thought of just skipping it. He was tired and sore, and didn't want to think about Spy anymore. 

His stomach grumbled out a well-timed argument, and he huffed in defeat. 

"Just somethin' quick," he told it, and threw open a cupboard. Shuffling some cans around, he found some peas, and another with ravioli. Good enough.

He contemplated heating up the ravioli for a brief minute before shaking his head. It was warm enough anyway; the camper was an oven during the day. Dropping the cans on his table, Mick flopped down with a can opener and a fork. Only a few bites in, he heard a scratching sound under his camper and frowned. For a split second, he thought it might be Spy, and his heart lurched in his chest. But the rogue never made that much noise, let alone crawling around beneath his vehicle. Mick rolled his eyes at himself and slid the can along the tabletop as he got up. 

Prior to stepping back outside, he grabbed his knife, just in case whatever critter it was felt like picking a fight. Just about any animal would attack if it felt trapped. It was already much cooler. Nighttime had fallen in earnest, with barely a hint of lighter blue left on the horizon line. The air was dry, but a faint breeze made it pleasant. Mick paused, taking a few deep breaths. This was where he felt at home; alone, in nature, away from all the complexities of human life. 

The scuffling started again, and now he had a good idea of what was making the noise. Sure enough, when he knelt down to peer under the camper, he saw the armadillo whose den he'd apparently parked over.

"Oi, keep it down, will ya?" he told it, even though he couldn't help but smile. Animals had always appealed to him more than people. Maybe it was just his upbringing in the outback, but he doubted that was the only reason.

"Cute little fellow, ain't ya?"

In reply, the armadillo blinked out at him with its beady black eyes once before going back to hunting.

"Mon Dieu, bushman, do I even _want_ to know what you're doing?"

_Shit_. 

Mick moved to get up too fast, whacking his head on the bottom edge of the truck. "Bugger!" 

Startled, the armadillo bolted back into its den, leaving him alone with the Spy and his inconvenient feelings. Of course the bastard was here. He couldn't wait one night to let him sort out his thoughts in peace.

A stifled snort came from behind him, in the same place as the familiar voice, and he steeled himself before getting up. His stance was a bit wobbly, and he rubbed his skull as he turned to regard Spy. 

"Quit showin' up like this!"

"Do you often converse with vermin, mon ami?" Spy teased. His masked face lit up for a moment with the warm orange glow of his lighter.

"Hmph. Does seem to be a bad habit I'm startin', considering who I'm talking to now."

Spy tilted one eyebrow upward at him while he took the first long drag off his cigarette. "Touché," he chuckled.

Mick bit back a retort. What was the man doing there, anyway? He already suspected the answer to that, of course. Spy wanted to know if things were going to progress between them, no doubt. That wasn't something he wanted to discuss. He wanted it to go away. Spy had just started to act like his old self. Rejection would hurt him. Huffing, Mick turned back and entered his camper. Maybe he could just ignore him and he'd go away. 

Or he'd follow him inside, sneer critically at the cans of food, and look down his prominent Roman nose at Mick when he sat back down. 

"There are problem?"

"I apologize. I was unaware I was interrupting 'dinner'," Spy drawled.

Mick's eyes slid back into his head for a second, almost by reflex. "Sorry I ain't spendin' my paychecks on gourmet meals."

"Believe me, Monsieur Mundy, nothing within two-hundred kilometers of this wasteland could ever be called a 'gourmet meal', but some of us at least _try_ to make dining enjoyable."

"Right." Mick skewered a piece of ravioli on his fork and stuffed it in his mouth. If the Spy wanted manners, he ought to stop showing up uninvited. "And you'd know so much about that, havin' traveled all over the worl-" He stopped himself too late. The rogue's expression had already fallen. "...Awe, shit. Spook, I--"

"Non. You are right. My arrogance in these matters is programmed, but rather unfounded." The other man looked away to hide the hurt in his eyes. "I feel no real connection to my copied memories. They're hollow."

Swallowing in a panic, Mick ended up choking on his pasta for half a minute before he could continue. "Christ, Spook, just ignore me."

After a painful silence, Spy slid into the booth across from him. "No matter. I came to discuss what I did today."

_Oh god. Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger._

Heart hammering away in his chest, sweat dampening his palms, and heat spreading to the edges of his ears, Mick gulped. At a loss for an acceptable response, he attempted to play dumb instead. "Yeah, what about it?"

Spy searched his eyes for a full minute, maybe longer. There was that strange and hopeful glint in his own gray-blue eyes. It made Mick feel downright cruel. He had kissed him back, albeit clumsily. That sort of thing got a person's hopes up. If only he could forget all that stuff about his job and common sense. At the very least, he should have the decency to tell him the truth. 

"I snuck into your Medic's lab again," Spy said while Mick was still stumbling over his thoughts.

Unsure if he was relieved or disappointed by narrowly escaping the subject he expected, Mick took a moment to process what he'd said. When he did, his fork fell from his hand, clanking against the table. He stared, wide-eyed and gawking in disbelief. And then when his voice returned, all that came to him was a lecture.

"Are ya outta your bleedin' mind, ya stupid snake?" Mick blurted out, louder than was necessary inside the small camper. "What do ya think woulda happened if he caught ya? I can't keep interfering, my team already thinks I've gone soft!"

The man across from him sighed, dragging his ashtray over to him to drop his burnt-out filter in it. "Merde, relax bushman. Do you think I'm pathetic enough to get caught _twice_? I knew how to avoid the same mistake. I also wasn't there long."

"What were ya after?"

There was cautious, calculating gaze from the rogue, like he was making one final assessment about whether to trust him. At last he nodded. "The Engineer's file."

Mick frowned. "Engie's? Why? Why not the doc's?"

"...You are aware of his extensive history with your employer, oui? Not the imbecile from your homeland, but the woman. She's the real power, and the one behind the... the cloning project."

Mick looked down at Spy's hand resting on the table, so close to his own. Just a few inches. A light touch might reassure him, even through his gloves. He shouldn't encourage him though. Sighing, he drew his hand back a tad. "Err yeah, I guess there's somethin' about that. His dad I guess built the Respawn machine."

"Grandfather, actually," Spy corrected. "Although his father worked for the company as well, his team eventually went rogue."

Before all this stuff with Spy happened, Mick had tried not to put a lot of thought into the history of Mann Co. and the Administrator's involvement. It was complicated and had little to do with sniping. Now the light started to turn on. If anyone knew why they were cloned, it was Engie.

"Crikey..."

Spy had a small, albeit tired smirk on his lips as he watched Mick. "Ah, there it is. You're not as dumb as you look, bushman." He held up a hand to keep him from a retort. 

"Sadly, his file contained nothing groundbreaking. I suspect he has censored it himself. As much as I would prefer to do the information gathering myself, I..." Spy paused, eyeing him closer. "His is your teammate, Sniper. As is the Medic."

Mick cringed. He and Engie were already burning on a short fuse over Spy. He hated it, too. He'd once considered the Texan a friend, perhaps more than the others. "And you think he's just gonna answer whatever I ask?"

"Of course not. You'll have to fool him into giving up the information."

Mick gave him a pointed stare. "In case ya missed it, m'not exactly the master of subtlety."

"Non, I am very well aware of your lack of grace. But we make do with what we have," Spy deadpanned.  

The jab made Mick bristle a little, but maybe it was just his imagination making him think the remark applied to anything more than the task at hand. 

"Right." He stared at the half-empty can in front of him, but his appetite was gone.

"I ought to just leave and escape this surreal gladiator's existence. But they'd hunt me down." Spy toyed with the cuffs of his jacket as he spoke. It was incredible how he even managed to make fidgeting look all proper and refined.

"Ya sure they'd bother? 'Sides, if anyone could escape it'd be you. They'd never find ya."

The Frenchman shrugged. "I have to know _why_ I was created."

Mick frowned. "Does it matter? You're here now. Why question it? Ya got a chance at a real life if ya want it, Spook."

"Perhaps I shouldn't care, but I do."

"Nah, I s'pose I get it." The throbbing in his head he'd gone numb to seemed to he picking up again. He never knew if it was a real headache or a Respawn hangover anymore. Groaning, he pressed his brow into his palms and tried to massage away the sharp pains behind his eyes.

"This is such a mess," Mick grumbled. "Why do any of this? What the hell are they tryin' to do?" 

"That's what you are going to try to find out," Spy said, folding his hands together in front of him. 

Mick slid his hands down his face, peering at him between his fingers. "Yeah? And what are _you_ gonna be doing?"

"Don't worry, I have my own trails to follow."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell Spy to get out of his camper and stop showing up every night. He wanted to forget everything and just got back to making headshots. 

At the same time he wanted to lunge over the table and pin Spy to his spot. He wanted to kiss him until neither of them could breathe. 

As none of those were things he was willing or able to do, he simply sighed and leaned back in the bench seat. "...Fine. Don't know if I'll get anywhere though. Engie already thinks I'm 'coddlin' ya."

Spy hooked his right eyebrow upward and tilted his head. "And what do you think?"

Mick felt his muscles go rigid, his nerves sending a little jolt through his chest. "I don't know. Maybe?" Spy's face started to sink. "But I know cloning a person and then settin' them up to die over and over is right sadistic." 

"So this is all about those 'professional standards' of yours, then?" the Frenchman asked. His eyes had hardened a bit.

It wasn't just that. Mick had already admitted to himself that he cared. He'd made it more than obvious that he did, too. "I guess somethin' like that."

Regret barreled right into him before his voice had even faded from the space. Spy's hurt was startlingly undisguised. "I see. Well, I won't take up any more of your time this evening. Signal me when you know more."

The bench gave a faint creak when Spy stood, moving for the back door. 

"Wait Spook!"

Mick's hand shot out to grab his sleeve. Spy's cool gray-blue eyes landed on the offending hand, and the feeling that he'd already lived this exact moment hit him. What'd they call that? Something French. How ironic. 

"I mean... I dunno. Spook... you're not alone, okay, mate? If- if ya want, you can always... y'know... come by," he stammered. His eyes kept darting towards Spy's only to dodge them again. Christ, how was he supposed to ask Engie anything?

Whatever part of his pathetic babbling did it, Mick couldn't say, but he felt the tension in Spy's arm relax in his hand. "Merci, bushman. Finish your dinner. I'll see you around."

Mick allowed the arm to slip from his grasp and watched dumbly as Spy left his camper. He looked down at his ravioli one final time and grunted. Maybe his plate-armored little friend would eat it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. It's been hard for me to write lately, and I'm feeling pretty unsure about these last two chapters, but I just need to get them out there. Hopefully they were still enjoyable.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pain and suffering and I feel the need to promise going into it that things will eventually work out.
> 
> PS: Engie is Wolverine Mean™

The weight of rejection made Spy's walk back to his base drag on more than it ever had before. Tired and defeated, he trudged along without paying any heed to the dust caking his oxfords. His legs ached, the muscles stiff as he walked. Merde, when had he gotten so out of shape? He would have preferred to blame his current mood, but in truth his body seemed to be slowing down for the past week. 

Chilly night air crept under his clothes, making him shiver. That, and the eerie cries of wild coyotes, which played a significant role in raising the hairs on his neck. The small, skittish canines were no real threat, at least. He had been glad that the heat wave was coming to an end, until it sank it that it had been the last call for summer. Now autumn was laying her claim. 

Though his pace kept slowing from time to time, Spy was too distracted to notice. His mind was dissecting the last half-hour until every minute was sliced open for analysis. He'd been so sure his interest was returned. Maybe he'd just imagined the whole thing; Sniper's arms holding him up, his lips kissing him back. He had kissed him back, hadn't he? Or was this all some fabricated waking dream, born of the wishful thinking of his dying mind? 

The Australian had told him over and over to stop messing around. Clearly he thought Spy was just playing games. Even he hated to admit that was a fair assessment. That had been the primary intent of his initial flirtations, five years ago. Still, anyone with the mental capacity above an eight-year-old child would have grown bored with the teasing if that was all there was to it.  

No matter. Sniper's avoidant behavior and the coldness in his tone when he'd tried to bring up the kiss made it clear. He was not interested. If Spy had caught the man's eyes sneaking appreciative glances at him, then it was apparently only in an aesthetic sense. To make matters worse, he'd sent Sniper on a complete fool's errand. All just to spare himself the humiliation of admitting he'd come hoping for... what, exactly? Romance? Nothing sounded more ridiculous in hindsight. 

There was no way the bushman had a chance to convince that hard-hatted sadist to tell him anything. Spy didn't need him to, either. He could find the information on his own without getting Sniper in trouble. Not to mention the outright lie about breaking into the Medic's cabinet again. That was over a week ago. He'd just needed something - anything - to sweep the kiss under the rug where Sniper obviously wanted it left.

The soft sounds of crunching rock and sand under his feet were gone, he realized amidst his thoughts. It dawned on him he'd stopped walking. He turned, staring back at the tiny camper against a deep blue horizon. It wasn't too late to go back, tell him not to talk to his teammates after all. His legs had no intention of obeying though, and Spy lacked the willpower to persuade them. He'd just be making a fool of himself. Besides, if he knew Sniper at all, he suspected he was going to try now no matter what Spy said to stop him.

_Merde, I am a selfish bastard_. 

He turned a final time, tucking a hand inside his jacket to pull out his smokes and lighter. 

" _You're not alone. If you want, you can always come by._ "

Spy found himself clinging to those words as he walked. Maybe that was enough. Asking for more was foolish of him, when he was little more than an elaborate counterfeit of the real René Janvier. One who was finding he could remember very little of his stolen memories before Teufort with any clarity. It was surreal, but perhaps not as frightening as it ought to have been. Losing what little connection he'd formed with Sniper, however, was terrifying.

Everything that he considered to be his, that which separated him from René in any way, always lead back to the RED Sniper. He had no strong attachments to his coworkers. Any paternal affection he'd felt for the BLU Scout had always been somewhat superficial to begin with, like going through the motions. Now every damn member of BLU just reminded him of his hollow existence.

Sniper made him feel alive, like he had some part to play in reality at all. He'd take whatever the man was willing to give, he realized. If that was just some awkward almost friendship founded on pity, then as the saying went, beggars couldn't choose. To be allowed to spend time around the other man, that was already more than he should expect.

A floodlight washed over him from above, turning on with an electronic thrumming noise. Frowning, Spy squinted up ahead, expecting to see the idiot Soldier standing guard. 

"Oi, Spook, what're you doin' out here?" 

The BLU Sniper stood leaning against the concrete wall next to the right doorway into the base. Tucked between his lips was a cigarette he had yet to light, but at the sight of his teammate he just held the lighter dumbly.

"...Am I under surveillance?" Spy sneered.

"Dunno. Should ya be?" The Sniper paused, obviously trying to get a read on him before shrugging. "You've been actin' weirder every day. And don't think I've forgotten what ya did."

To be honest, Spy had almost forgotten it himself. Barging into his teammate's room and throwing himself at him was not his proudest moment. Yet looking at the man now, he wondered if he would do after all.

"...Oui, I suppose you have a point, mon ami."

Sniper stared at him for a moment before dropping his lighter back in his pocket and putting his unlit smoke away. He pushed off from the wall and walked up to Spy.

"Look, mate, I ain't mad or nothin'. Just... Christ, I ain't any good at this." He cringed at his own bumbling attempts at conversation, rubbing the back of his neck and shying from eye contact.

It should have felt familiar. Were those clumsy antics not the very ones he found to be so irresistible with Mundy? He was being a hypocrite if he'd rather have the 'real' Sniper. Maybe if he just gave it time, he'd find his own teammate just as charming. 

"Perhaps we should find somewhere less exposed to discuss this?" Spy offered.

"Probably a good idea." Sniper gave him a weak smile. "Lead the way, I guess."

That didn't sit right either. Mundy wasn't quite so agreeable. Then again, he was supposed to be Spy's enemy. Was that part of it, then? He hardly needed the thrill of courting someone off limits, though. Not with everything else turned upside down on him. Spy pushed aside the thought as he silently lead Sniper back to the marksman's room. 

"Back where we started, then," Sniper remarked with an uneasy chuckle, apparently attempting to lighten the tension.

"After you," Spy said.

"Right." The taller man fixed a wary gaze on him as he opened the door and slipped into the room. 

Following right behind, Spy closed the door and made sure to lock it. The act was not lost on Sniper, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing on the matter.

"So, uh... You've been avoidin' me since..." He trailed off, gesturing. 

Spy sighed, trying to ignore the blue color of his shirt and focus on the long, oddly handsome face. "It is not as though we ever spent any significant amount of time together to begin with."

"Which just makes what ya did even more crazy," Sniper snapped.

"Hmm. Crazy, is it? Interesting choice of words, bushman." Spy made himself comfortable, sitting on the edge of Sniper's bed.

Spies gathered information in a great many ways, but none had ever had the opportunity to question a target by way of a clone. Sniper had access to Mundy's memories, though, and he wasn't concerned about playing fair. Especially when unnerving his target with a level gaze and calm demeanor was child's play.

"Tell me, have you never been with a man?" he asked. 

Sniper's face reddened. "Well... Bugger it, you're the bloody spy, so I bet ya already know! 'Sides, ain't like I gotta hide it after... I mean to say... Shit."

Spy rolled his eyes. This was always so adorable when RED Sniper got flustered, but the BLU just looked like an imbecile. "I find it hard to believe you've been with anyone but your right hand," he taunted. 

"Oh get stuffed, ya snake! Ya fancy Frenchies seem to think there ain't any consequences if ya go hangin' off another man. I just ain't so eager about losin' me job over a pash."

"Even a very good one?" Spy leaned forward on the bed and held the Sniper's eyes. 

Sniper's Adam's apple bobbed twice. "Crikey, why now?"

"I'm not allowed to feel lonely?"

He cursed softly, still staring at Spy in disbelief. "Spook, I- Why me? Ya barely ever give me the time of day, now you're jumpin' me for a naughty!"

"Shut up, Sniper," he commanded, tone sharper than he intended. He stood and closed in on the other man, wanting nothing more than to get rid of that offending blue shirt. "Just stop talking."

Before Sniper was able to protest, he had him pressed back against the wall, shoving his vest off his shoulders. His hands worked with determination, untucking his shirt with a rough tug and deftly undoing a few buttons. Then the sharpshooter grabbed his wrists.

"H-hold on!"

"Now what?" he sneered. Impatience was turning to irritation. All the Sniper had to do was shut up and enjoy himself. Then Spy could forget, getting lost in a convenient illusion.

"I- I just...," Sniper stammered, staring like a deer caught in headlights as Spy glared at him. Somehow, he seemed less handsome than Mundy, but he'd do. Close enough.

Spy took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain collected. "Honestly Sniper, it's only sex. Stop making such a fuss."

The taller man was still visibly stupefied, but his grip on his arms released, and Spy resumed undoing his shirt. His breathing was coming a bit faster now, whether from nerves or excitement Spy couldn't say. In truth, he barely cared. With the shirt cast aside, his fantasy could be played out. He let his hands wander down the man's stomach, surprisingly soft but not unpleasantly so, and unlatched his belt. 

"S-Spy... Christ, you're really serious-"

"Merde, stop talking, bushman." Without any further fanfare, Spy lowered himself to his knees, pulling the Sniper's trousers down as he went. "Just let me do this," he murmured, tugging away the man's boxers as well. He hummed with satisfaction, finding Sniper's cock already starting to harden under the slightest touch.

"...Fuck!" There was a soft thud following the curse as Sniper dropped his head back against the wall.

Smirking, he traced a few firm lines with his tongue up from his balls to the tip of his cock. He was rather bemused by how little effort it took to coax him to full attention, and once he had him there, he couldn't resist the urge to tease. Sniper was past the point of arguing, groaning and grabbing at the back of his mask for something to hold on to. He opened his mouth just wide enough to take the head in, teasing the slit while Sniper gasped. Soon he'd have the bushman completely undone, begging for more. 

Eager and unabashed, he began coaxing the back of his throat open. Sniper was more than formidable in size, but he adjusted with relative ease. Another inherited 'skill' from Monsieur Janvier, no doubt. At least it was a pleasurable one.

Another moan from the marksman sent shivers down his spine. Spy closed his eyes, savoring the gravely sound of his voice and the heat of his flesh. His imagination did the rest. The concrete walls of his base fell away, replaced in his mind by a cramped little camper that smelled faintly of cheap coffee and smoke. Then the hand on the back of his head belonged to the RED Sniper.

The hand tugged at his balaclava, but made no earnest attempt to remove it. In the most private part of his mind, he entertained the thought of taking it off. That was how Sniper would have him. On his knees in that ugly camper with his rough hand in his hair, pulling it and making a mess of it. Raw and dirty and _perfect_.

Spy groaned deep in his throat, as aroused by his hidden thoughts as he was by the feel of a cock in his mouth. There were waves of heat pooling in his stomach as his pants grew uncomfortable. In no mood for patience, he gave in to the urge to undo his slacks.

"S-Spook! Oh God-!" Sniper's free hand landed on his shoulder, pushing just slightly. 

Ignoring whatever half-hearted, confused attempt he was making to dislodge him, Spy sucked harder, taking almost the entire length of him into his mouth. The tip brushed the back of his throat, but resisting the urge to gag just made his own cock throb harder. Determined to hang on to his fantasy, he shoved his briefs down and wrapped his hand around his erection. Bobbing his head steadily in time to the erratic push and pull of Sniper's unsure hands, he pumped his hand over his own member.  

"Fuck! Slow down!" The Australian's moans and panting made his entire body tingle. Merde, he sounded so filthy.

Spy dragged his thumb over the head of his own cock, wishing he'd at least pulled his gloves off. It was too late now; he was close already, and the way Sniper's cock twitched was evidence enough that he was as well. With that realization, he doubled his efforts, all but choking himself and loving it.

"Fuck, Spook, if ya don't slow down I'm gonna...! Ah!" 

Both of Sniper's hands clasped him tight, holding him in place as he released. Spy struggled to swallow, squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on his own approaching climax. He felt the warm substance slide down his throat, both disgusted and pleased by the sensation, until it drove him over the edge as well.

Sniper grunted as he went limp, breath still coming in heavy gasps as Spy sucked and licked him. He worked himself through the last of his orgasm while doing so, only opening his eyes when he was truly spent. It was a good thing he waited to do so. 

Disoriented by the sudden bright light and unfeeling concrete walls, Spy reeled back from the man he'd just pleasured so shamelessly. Sweaty and red-faced, dark brown hair clinging to his brow, looking so much like the one he wanted yet somehow not at all. The man was his teammate, the BLU Sniper. The quaint camper of his daydream had been ripped away.

"...Spook?"

The voice was far off in another reality, the sound trapped in a vacuum. Spy stared numbly at his hand, repulsed by the sticky white residue on it. Stupidly, he wiped it on on his leg, only vaguely aware of how much he'd curse the stain later. Then the realization hit that he had swallowed far more of the same. He was going to be sick. Not here. He had to get away from here.

Shaking hands fumbled to tuck his softening member back into his pants. Scrambling to his feet, he made a pathetic attempt to straighten up his disheveled suit and then hurried towards the door. He heard Sniper calling after him, but it was all in a fog.

The trip to his own room, set apart from the quarters used by the others, was agonizing. Concrete walls stretched out longer than they had ever been before, the corridors spinning sideways like the tunnels of a funhouse. Hallucinations, of course, but nearly as effective as the real thing in almost throwing him off his feet. He all but fell through his door, barely remembering to lock it before slumping against the nearest bookcase.

His private quarters had always calmed him somewhat. Though there was little to be done with the concrete, he'd put a lot of thought into decorating the space until he liked to imagine it resembled the interior of an old castle. The rich aesthetics of antique furnishings and ornate tapestries did nothing to soothe him now. Could his fondness of such things even be considered genuine? The RED Spy's own rooms likely looked so very similar. 

A soft curse left his lips. He needed a cigarette. Some tiny part of him that belonged to Janvier needed something even stronger, but even if he was able to make it to Medic's lab, he doubted he'd know what to take. The man was not known for having a very intuitive labeling system. He managed, with considerable difficulty, to get a cigarette out. It look a pitiful amount of fumbling to light it, but the relief as he inhaled did wonders. After a minute or so he was able to stumble over to his chaise and collapse into it.

Merde, he had completely lost himself back there. No control, no common sense at all. This was going to come back to haunt him. Hell, it already was. Guilt cornered him from every angle. Why couldn't he just settle for his teammate? He looked the same, sounded the same, acted similar enough. It couldn't be just because he wasn't the real Sniper. Even before he'd known the truth, only the RED marksman had ever struck him as interesting. Now he felt as if he'd betrayed him.

Spy scoffed at that thought. "Betrayed? He doesn't even want you," he reminded himself.

The only one he'd betrayed was himself. Acting like such a wanton slut because he was so utterly desperate for the affections of a man who barely tolerated his company. He knew he ought to feel shame for his treatment of the BLU, and in some disconnected way, he did. He'd used him and then tossed him aside twice now. But he found himself going back to his own selfish lament, and as the cigarette in his hand burned out, so too did his strength.

Spy dropped the filter into an ashtray, buried his face in his hands, and wept.

 

* * *

Thursday morning came alongside a pounding headache. Mick had fallen asleep in the damn bench again, sitting there waiting for Spy while trying to tell himself he wasn't really. Bugger it, he was out of his depths. 

Clunking and banging sounds filled the camper as he got up, only to stumble when his legs informed him that they were not, in fact, awake. He cursed and grabbed for the tin cup he'd been using in place of his destroyed coffee mug. He still felt like an ass for leaving it; upon going back, the pieces had been gone. Only one little shard, marked with half of a red "#", remained. Mick couldn't say why he'd bothered tucking it into a pocket in his vest, but it was still there.

It was already starting to feel like one of 'those' days when he checked his coffee pot and found the filter had finally torn. One could only get away with reusing the things so many times. His gut sank when he shoved his hand into the beaten-up filter box and found it was empty. 

"Ya gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!"

Normally it was not the end of the world to have to dress and drag himself to base to get his coffee. All right, it still wasn't, but every time he saw Engie, Medic, or his team's uptight Spy, he remembered what he was supposed to be doing to help the BLU. He still didn't see how he was going to be of any use. In fact if he messed it up, he was pretty sure the one to suffer would still be the Spy. And of course he was going to mess it up. How the bloody hell was s clumsy wanker like him going to get either of those eggheads to talk? Never mind that both already regarded him with suspicion. 

He hadn't have any chance to ask Spy more, however. An entire week had gone by without a single sign of the Spy. No backstabs, no clandestine meetings, not even a whiff of the Frenchman's favorite cologne. Mick knew he'd let him down, and it had been the last damned thing he wanted to do. Every evening as he found himself back in his camper alone, hoping the handsome snake would show up, he remembered the look on his face. He had been hoping for more; nothing could be more obvious. For him to be able to see through the Spy, of all men... well it had to have really hurt him. 

Mick's groggy procession to the kitchen ended around primetime for breakfast, and the loud antics of eight other men greeted him as he swung the door open. No, seven, he realized. The Spy wasn't around. Why did that make him nervous? It wasn't unheard of for his teammate to skip meals. Or more likely, obtain them elsewhere.

"Rematch tonight!" came a holler to his left that his aching head was not at all prepared to endure.

Cringing, Mick turned to glare at the source. "Oi, what're ya on about now?"

Soldier held up a finger not an inch from his face, and his instinctual attempt to focus on it caused a stabbing pain behind his eyes. "You never win! I know you were up to something, you kangaroo-humping hippy!" 

Slowly, the memory returned. Somehow he'd managed to forget only two nights ago when several of the team had dragged him into poker. It had been at Scout's insistence that he was 'moping around' too much. He'd only agreed because the Engineer wasn't there, which was odd because the Texan never missed a chance to empty out their pockets, but his absence had proved pretty profitable for Mick. Any other time, he would have just given his teammate a short nod and agreed to his stupid 'rematch'.

"I never win because Truckie always does!" he huffed. 

"Precisely!" 

"...He didn't bloody play last time, ya wanker," Mick snarled, almost considering decking the half-witted American.

"Awe geez, Solly, leave him alone!" Scout groaned from behind the man.

Mick let out a long sigh. "Look, Soldier, me head is throbbing about to burst, can ya tone it down for at least an hour?"

"Hmph. Affirmative, but I will not forget this, private." 

As he moved out of the way, Scout came into view, rocking his chair back on two legs. The kid made a mocking face at Soldier's back and then winked at Mick. Demo was sitting nearby as well, shaking his head in a way that seemed to say 'don't mind him'. 

Mick waved to them before passing through the dining area into the actual kitchen, only to stop stupidly in the doorway. There were both Engie and Medic, chatting away about something right in front of the coffee maker.

Before he could decide to flee or not, the Texan turned to him with a grin. He wasn't wearing his goggles or hardhat yet, and looked almost strange at first. "Well, speak of the Devil."

Mick tried to swallow only to find his throat dry. They had been talking about him. Why? Christ, what if they were on to him? He hadn't even opened his mouth and he'd blown it.

_Say something!_ "What about me?" he croaked out, sounding about as innocent as a rat in a granary.

Both men stared at him for what felt like way too long before Medic burst out laughing. "Oh, don't do that to the poor man!" he told Engie, slapping the shorter man on the arm.

"Heard ya cleaned house last night. Maybe I oughta skip the table more often and let you shine, son." Engie chuckled and stepped off to the side, leaving a clear path to the coffee.

"...Oh, that. Can't have lousy luck all the time, yeah?" Mick tried to stretch his features into a smile he didn't feel.

"I reckon it ain't all about luck," the Texan said, his sharp blue eyes following Mick as he moved over to the counter.

Despite the fact that he should have felt relieved, there was something in Engie's demeanor that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Medic, too, though the malicious glint in his eyes could be related to just about anything, and was hardly unique to this situation. Besides, the doc only lingered long enough to down the rest of his tea and then he was off, leaving just the Engineer hovering next to Mick.

"Nah, s'pose not," Mick mumbled, remembering to respond.

"Gotta keep the right face on, or it don't matter what hand you're dealt." 

There was a pause, and the muffled arguing from the other room reached Mick's ears. It was mostly good-natured, but the lot of them always had something to bicker about. He'd take petty arguments over the tension building in his current predicament any day. 

"Thing is," Engie continued, "some folks just aren't too good at not gettin' caught in a bluff."

"You gettin' at somethin', Truckie?" he blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Me? I'm just talkin' about cards, stretch."

Christ. Wanker sure was one to talk, wasn't he? "Right."  

Mick poured his coffee hurriedly, not caring to stay where he was any longer. The voices of his teammates were fading into the rest of the base as the mercs filtered out, preparing for another day of killing. Seemed as good a cue as any for him to leave too. But then Spy's hopeful eyes, imploring him from behind that mask, flashed in front of him. 

"Maybe I'm callin' your bluff for once," he ventured. 

Engie's gaze darkened like a fast-moving storm over the outback, but he didn't move a muscle. The familiar lopsided smile turned menacing, somehow. "You ready to play with stakes that high?"

He knew. Somehow, the bastard just knew he was trying to help Spy. So be it. 

"I already am," Mick dared.

Whatever he expected the man's reaction to be, he was sure it hadn't included a calm, throaty chuckle and a shake of the head. Engie barely budged, save to shift his weight off of his elbows where he'd been leaning back on the counter. He was so damned relaxed. Mick stood his ground, wondering if this meant he'd convinced the man to talk to him straight after all. Then the Texan ran a hand over his bald head, then let it drop. 

"I remember when I was a boy, back home on the neighbor's ranch. Used to love playin' with the baby hogs. Cute lil' fellas. So my pa took me aside, and he told me what was what. Namely, not to go gettin' attached to things that are meant to be put down." Engie straightened up and turned to face Mick. "Seems to me, no one ever taught ya that lesson. Or do you just learn even slower than that pet of yours?" 

The hot coffee that spilled onto his hand when he dropped the cup must have scalded, but it didn't register. Nor did he know for sure how long it took for him to stop gawking in shock before his anger flared up and burst through the surface. Then his fist was swinging. It connected hard enough with the stout man's jaw to knock him off balance. What he had intended to do next he wasn't really sure, but it was a moot point. 

Something had stopped him mid-motion, held by a strong tension on his arm. He blinked into a strangely reddish empty space, still processing what was happening when he was thrown backward. The force knocked him into the opposite wall and down to the floor. Cursing, Mick looked up into the red-tinted haze taking a human form.

"Really, bushman, could you be any more barbaric?" Spy sneered down at him.

Shit. Had the piker been in the room this whole time? It was odd enough to see him jumping to defend Engie, when he rarely so much as lifted a finger to assist a teammate outside of the requirements of his job.

"I'll make this short. We know you've been associating with the enemy," Spy went on. "I will remind you once again that he is nothing but a clone, one that I intend to see destroyed. I will not allow someone who is conscious of this truth and in possession of my memories continue to breathe."

"Get over yourself, Spy," he snapped. "If I found out I was a bloody experimental replica of someone, the last thing I'd be concerned about would be exposin' all his precious secrets."

"Nor would you be interested in keeping them!" 

"You're one selfish son of a bitch, ya know that?" 

"Oh, yes. Of course I do." Sarcasm coated Spy's tone, yet he appeared otherwise stoic.

Mick pushed himself to his feet. So much for talking in riddles. He'd already ruined everything without even getting a single question answered. He didn't want to face the BLU Spy to tell him he'd failed. All he could do was stand firm against these two.

"It don't even faze you at all, goin' out there and looking these guys in the eye, knowing they think they're us, and killing them?" Mick asked, switching focus between the two men. 

Engie had fallen quiet since he struck, but his glare suggested the fight would not have ended without Spy's intervention. He rubbed his jaw, glancing up at the Frenchman when he spoke.

"Merde, it doesn't matter! _We_ are the originals, and unless we wish to be replaced by those drones, we will continue to end them." Spy was nearly shouting, his outrage barely contained.

That was when Engie stepped in beside him. Something resembling concern broke through his anger as he set his ungloved left hand on the Frenchman's shoulder. It seemed to calm Spy.

"Listen, stretch, I get feelin' sorry for him, but he ain't worth more than that," Engie said, and all the steam had left him. 

Where the hell had such a drastic change in attitude come from? It couldn't just be Spy. Or maybe it could. Spies seemed to have funny effects on people, as he well knew. It didn't matter though; he was too late. Mick wasn't about to forget what he said.

"You think the Administrator's not gonna find out?" Engie continued, frowning. "What happened with Demo and the Soldier, that was just a warnin'. She won't go easy the second time around."

"Good," Mick said. "'Cause I ain't gonna either."

He made for the door, and to his surprise, Engie stepped aside before Spy. The rogue blocked Mick's path, familiar steel blue eyes challenging him. The shrill ring of the intercom coming on rang in his ears, reminding him of his headache. It was followed by static and the Administrator's voice giving the twenty-minute warning. Still, neither man moved for several seconds. Then, just as Mick prepared to sidestep his colleague, Spy stepped aside. They kept one another in their sights until he was out of the room. 

It looked like he was going to have to last the day without his coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So BLU Sniper was never meant to have much of a roll in this, but you all can blame thewolfbroughtindoors on tumblr for that. She even wrote this scene over in his POV and made me care too much. We'll be posting that too, even if it's a bit redundant, because it's good and gives a different perspective. I'll be interested to hear what people think about that, as BLU Sniper may end up being a POV character in later chapters.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any few who still care about this fic, I am sorry for the delays, but real life has been dragging me down a lot this year. It means a lot to me that people would still be reading though. Thank you all so much ♡ 
> 
> I had this and the next chapter written a while ago but I wasn't happy with them. Gotta stop sitting on this stuff though. Hopefully I'm just overthinking.

Dell watched as the kitchen door swung back and forth after Sniper stormed out. Spy still kept his back to him, but he could feel the heat coming off of him.

"...You all right?"

The Frenchman took a deep breath in and turned to him. "I do believe I should be asking you that."

"What, this?" he scoffed, gesturing to his jaw. "I get killed almost every day. 'Sides, my sister hits harder than that beanpole." He wasn't even making that up.

Spy's head turned to look back at him as quirked an eyebrow. "She sounds lovely."

Dell shook his head, daring to move closer despite the unreliable privacy of their location. "I should be pissed that you were lurkin' around me cloaked again. Thought we talked about that."

"We did," he said, tone flat. "I was following him. I've been keeping an eye on the bushman." Spy seemed to be waiting for a reaction before he continued.

"Yeah, and...?"

"I suspect the BLU Spy has some kind of infatuation with him. It seems he has been visiting our colleague off the clock." Spy huffed indignantly out of his nostrils. "It's entirely unseemly. I would have expected even a counterfeit of myself to be above falling for someone just because he saved him."

"God damn it," he muttered, thoughts turning to what had happened with Demo. Well if this wasn't a repeat of bad history, nothing was.

"Indeed."

Dell had almost started to feel bad for what he'd said. Seeing Spy as flustered as he had been was worrisome, enough to put his own irritation with Sniper on hold. But if the Australian thought he was going to put his nose in Dell's business, he was going to get mean. The sharpshooter had a soft heart, all of them knew it. He tried to hide it, but that damned BLU Spy was like a wounded animal that the Sniper's very nature demanded he take in.

"So, what is she going to do about it?"

The rogue's voice cut into his thoughts, and he realized he'd been silent. "She...? Oh, right."

For a moment, he questioned the wisdom of telling Spy more than he should, but in truth he could do with getting this off his chest.

"Truth is, the Administrator hasn't been answerin' my calls for three weeks now," he admitted.

Spy's eyes widened and his lips parted in genuine surprise. "What about Miss Pauling?"

"Got ahold of her briefly last week, she assured me everythin' was fine. Seemed in a real hurry to get off the line, though." He recalled the distracted tone of the young woman's voice, knowing there was something she hadn't been telling him.

If Spy had anything to say on the matter, he was keeping it to himself. Figured. Dell studied him as he adjusted his cuffs, wanting to address how upset he had been but not daring to aggravate him more. The Frenchman caught his stare just the same and quirked an eyebrow at him.

"What is it?" he asked, shifting his gaze between Dell and his jacket sleeve.

"Guess I just wasn't expectin' to see you get so riled up. You're really that bothered by that BLU?"

Spy's upper lip curled back with displeasure, and Dell prepared himself for another verbal assault. Instead, the taller man took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "There are things that were left out my file. Things only she knows, which are held over my head every day. The real reason I signed the contract."

Dell bit his tongue to keep from asking further. It wasn't as if Spy was going to elaborate.

"If certain parties were to learn of this information, it would be disastrous for all of us."

Dell glanced at the clock. "It'd a lot easier to help if I knew the details, Spy," he dared. "Unless I am certain parties..."

"Non. I suppose..." He paused, calculating eyes looking up and down, creating some private analysis of Dell's trustworthiness.

As he began to speak again, he was cut off by the recorded voice of the Administrator announcing the ten minute warning. By the time the intercom stopped ringing in their ears, he seemed even more weary.

"I suppose I could expound upon some of it," Spy concluded.

Well now that was one hell of a surprise. Dell's prized poker face had to be failing. "...Should I leave my door open tonight?"

Spy cast him a rather displeased look. "...Your room is terribly uncomfortable, cher," he pouted.

Dell rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. "Oh for cryin' out loud, it's the same as all the rooms!"

"Not mine." He sniffed indignantly. "...Come by my study at eleven tonight." Spy placed a hand lightly on his hip and leaned down to give him a quick kiss before heading out to the day's battle.

Something inside him that he preferred once again not to name felt almost giddy. The secretive Frenchman was letting him in, and seemed almost hopeful in doing so. There was something so important that he had bargained with Helen to keep it hidden. Signed everything away for it, when he was clearly miserable. Yet now he wanted Dell to know.

The sixty second warning made his whole body jolt where he still stood, dumbly staring at the kitchen door. His heart was beating faster as his senses returned and he scrambled out towards the gates. He was late getting the first teleporter up, but he couldn't keep his mind on the job anyway.

* * *

The RED Sniper was completely off of his game, and their Engineer seemed distracted, too. What once would have been the framework for the BLU Spy's perfect day did nothing but worry him. Something had to have happened, and the pervasive feeling it was his fault wouldn't leave him be. Try as he might to tell himself it was paranoia, he had been a fool in the past week. Throwing himself at a man who didn't want him, sending him on a doomed errand to cover it up, trying to replace him with his clueless clone, and then being to much of a coward to face him again. Yes, he really was without a doubt, an asshole.

Shame gave way to concern though as he watched Sniper clamber back up the old water tower after his fourth respawn. He'd given his spot away for the second time, and was rewarded for his mistake by a barrage of well-placed grenades blasting it to pieces. A quick glance at the current scores and his pitiful kill count confirmed something was definitely wrong with the man.

Retrieving his sapper from a sentry he'd put down far too easily, Spy crept unseen around the base of the tower. He frowned as he surveyed the battleground once more. BLU was in the lead, and RED tempers were rising. The Scout and Soldier were engaged in one of their typical spats off to his left, but otherwise the area was clear. He could get a dagger in one of their backs, perhaps both given how oblivious they were, and still make it to Resupply before the match was half-finished. Or he could climb the tower and check on Sniper.

He hated climbing that thing. Though not afraid of heights, per say, he still was not fond of them. Especially not combined with dirty, rickety towers, to say nothing of expensive custom-tailored suits and treadless oxfords. But he'd done it a thousand times. Why did the mere thought exhaust him now? Dizziness hit him as he stared up it and squinted against the bright sun that just crept out from behind the tank. Once again he was hit with the uncomfortable feeling that something was not right with him. He wasn't the most physically fit of the mercs, but he was never unable to keep up with the job. As he was unable to define whatever it was that felt inexplicably 'off' about him, however, Spy cast it aside. Frustrated by his own apprehension, Spy grabbed hold of the first rung and hoisted himself up.

His shoes slipped at least half a dozen times, but he made it to the top. Albeit with arms turned to rubber and his lungs aching. Spy forgot his discomfort when he spotted Sniper though, perched at the edge of a hole in the dilapidated water tank and fumbling to reload his rifle. He double-checked his watch, thankful he'd chosen the Cloak and Dagger model, and slipped through another opening. The bushman pulled released the sliding mechanism on his gun too quickly and it caught his thumb, earning a loud curse from the man.

"Bloody wankers," he was mumbling. "Whole lot of 'em! Damn lucky I'm a professional or I'd be blowin' their brains to bits instead."

Spy quirked an eyebrow, then his heart lurched in his chest. Was he talking about his own teammates, then? He'd tried to confront Engineer after all. It was so obvious it didn't need a spy to uncover it.

He forced himself to remain calm and looked over the rest of Sniper's surroundings. There wasn't much to find, though. The mug he all but obsessively carried around - or rather the pieces of it - was still stashed Spy's room. Without the missing piece, it wouldn't ever be repaired, but Sniper had substituted a battered old tin mug when he saw him yesterday. Remarkable that a man with his salary refused to buy anything new. The absense of coffee was not enough to account for his poor performance alone, though.

Now Spy was torn between greeting the man or plunging a knife between his shoulders. With the man's mood and the likelihood of it being his fault, the former would not end well. The latter, however... he just couldn't bring himself to do it. After everything he'd done already, it would be deplorable to send the poor man back to Respawn again, a new set of phantom pains to endure as he struggled to secure a new hiding spot.

He needed to face him again, to apologize for everything. If he didn't fix this, the Australian might never even speak to him again. It wouldn't even be surprising if he was already too mad to forgive him. Merde, he couldn't bear to even imagine that. But there wasn't anything he could do now. Leaving Sniper in peace, Spy descended the tower with a plan already forming in his head.

* * *

Not many of the mercs spent any amount of time in the room at the far end of the west hall. It was dubbed Spy's smoking room, and while those who had been inside saw little more than a lounge area, it was well-known Spy had never once used the room set aside for him. Most joked he didn't sleep. Dell hated to admit he wondered, too. Even after having shared his own bed several times with the Frenchman, he had never stayed the night.

But when the door opened that night to allow Dell entry, he saw just the single room. A very decadant, overly lavish single room. From the elaborate, antique furnishings to huge paintings in gaudy frames, excessive was an understatement. Spy had even managed to cover up the drab walls of the base with ornate boarding. Entering made Dell feel like he'd stepped into another dimension.

As he looked around, Dell had to bite his tongue. He'd expected this much, and any comments about the man's taste could ruin the chance he had to learn whatever secret Spy planned to share. He couldn't be sure if the nervous energy surrounding them was his own, or if Spy himself was uneasy. The atmosphere felt so fragile, and he wasn't one for walking on eggshells.

Spy closed the door and busied himself with locking it. Four times, Dell noted. Two slides, a deadbolt, and the standard lock. "Thank you for coming, mon ami."

Dell managed a nod. "Ya seemed pretty tense this mornin'."

Spy scoffed. "Weren't we all?"

With a tired sigh, Dell ran his left hand across his head, noting the length of the stubble in the back. He never let it grow much; it made him look old. He'd come in a clean shirt and regular pants, leaving all the work accesories behind, even his glove. Spy hated all those things, and he intended to help him be at ease.

"Yeah, got me there. Shit," he groaned. "Never shoulda said that to Sniper." He had done worse than a cross-eyed rookie on the field that day. If he wasn't kicking himself for what he'd said to Sniper, he'd been lost in thought about what Spy could possibly want to tell him. He still hated himself for making the Australian the scapegoat for his stress.

Spy's eyebrows lifted, taking the edge off of his tired and grim expression. "Said what?"

"About puttin' BLU down. Not like that."

The rogue's face darkened, shadows sinking into the creases caused as his brow furrowed. "You most certainly should have. He is completely out of his mind!"

"He's just softhearted. And he fell for the French charm." Dell smirked. "It's a common weakness, I'm afraid."

Spy's eyes stayed narrowed on him for a bit longer before he huffed and brushed past him. "Stop comparing me to that pathetic amateur."

"Sorry," Dell said, holding up his hands. He wasn't about to push the issue tonight.

The rogue had made his way to a wet bar on one side of the room. Glasses clinked alongside the sound of the fire popping as he filled a glass with bourbon, not speaking at all.

Dell followed partway, only to note that there was only one chair in the main area of the room. There were two others pushed against the far wall, but that was hardly conducive to conversation. Unsure what he was supposed to be doing, he resigned to standing just to the side of the large armchair. The padding was a deep red velvet, but it didn't actually look all that comfortable. Then again it sat rather high, with a tall back, and he imagined it wasn't made with shorter fellows in mind.

Spy stayed at the bar and downed an entire glass before filling another, but still just stood there. As the silence built into unbearable tension, his smooth baritone voice finally cut through it. "I had hoped this would be easier."

Frowning, Dell moved closer. "I'm tryin' to make it be."

Spy continued to speak without turning to face him. "I find with you a strange sense of security I have never known, and I realize now it is because I have so little left to hide. That terrifies me. Infuriates me."

His hand was clenching the edge of the bar, arm muscles rigid beneath the thin fabric of his dress shirt. Dell didn't interrupt, lest he break this spell of honesty.

"This is foolish," Spy continued, clearly trying to convince himself. "I cannot allow myself to behave this way. Yet I want nothing more than to keep going."

Dell crossed the last few steps between them until he stood just a foot behind the taller man. Closer now, he could sense the way the rogue's whole body was coiled tight, a spring just waiting to release. It was selfish of him, but it thrilled Dell just knowing that he was the one, after countless lovers before, who made Spy feel like this. It made him bold enough to risk the slightest of pushes.

"Remember what I told ya. Ya have to allow yourself somethin'," he said.

The other must have recalled the rest, because he stood straight again, turning halfway from the bar to Dell, and slipped his hand inside his vest. A moment later, he produced a small, slightly wrinkled paper. After a long, pained stare at it, he shoved it towards Dell.

It was a photo.

Dell took it with care, expecting it might be snatched away at any moment, and studied the pair looking back at him. One was a woman; beautiful, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with jet black hair and lively green eyes that shone even in the faded color of the old photograph. Beaming beside her and holding a frog triumphantly was a buck-toothed little boy with muddy-brown hair. For a split second, Dell wondered if it was Spy, before he realized how stupid that was. Photos weren't in color when Spy was that kid's age, for one. For another, other than perhaps his eyes, he didn't really look like him. He did look familiar, though.

Lifting his gaze, he found Spy hanging his head, looking defeated, maybe even frightened. Then his stomach sank. "...Spy?"

"That is... my son. With his mother."

His heart screeched to a halt and plummeted down to his stomach. His son? He had a goddamned son and he'd failed to bring that up? What about the woman? Was he married? Divorced? Was Dell essentially an accessory to infidelity all along?

Spy's eyes found his face, the steely shades of blue tinted by firelight. He was nervous, and his gaze almost pleading Dell not to be angry.

Dell stared at the photo again before exhaling hard through pursed lips. The air found its way out of his inflated cheeks with a long whistle. He ran his good hand over his scalp and shook his head. "God damn it, Spy."

"...Oui. Je sais." The Frenchman stared into his drink.

"They got names?" he asked, trying to take the weight off in manageable blocks.

"...Jeremy. His mother's name is Vincenza."

Something clicked in the back of Dell's mind. Someone else's file, nowhere as heavy. He shrugged it aside. "...There a ring involved here?" He had to know.

Spy's eyebrows raised a hair, and he scoffed softly. "Non, non. She would have said yes, I'm sure. Once upon a time, anyway. We parted long ago."

"Ah... I see." His relief was probably poorly disguised, considering his current company's profession. "So how old is he?"

No response came for a moment, and then Spy downed the last of his glass in one gulp. "He just celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday last month. I believe you were there, in fact."

Dell blinked at him, and with a single quirk of Spy's eyebrow, it struck him square in the chest. "...Jesus."

Spy just sighed, head drooping. "If my clone were to let that get out, I... I can't allow it."

There was no easy way to look at this mess. Spy obviously believed he was protecting Scout. The kid had a stack of issues two stories high regarding his feelings about the father who had 'disappeared' when he was young. Considering his already turbulent relationship with Spy, were he to learn the truth, it would likely be a disaster.

"Too bad ya couldn't see that far ahead before ya walked out on him, huh?"

He felt the regret bite into him as soon as Spy's gaze returned to him, a mixture of hurt and faint surprise momentarily showing through. No, he didn't exactly like the idea that all along the one who'd abandonded the kid was Spy, but he could put that aside. Or he should.

"Shit, forget I said that," he sighed.

"I doubt I will, but it is a fair assessment, if obvious." Spy tugged at the hem of his jacket, pulling out his familiar kit for a smoke.

"It ain't that simple."

"Non? Perhaps it is," Spy drawled. He sucked on the end of his cigarette, coaxing the end to a deep orange glow.

Dell wasn't about to get into one of his rants about his father. Chances were the Frenchman had already done his research and knew all about the conflict between Radigan Conagher and his son Fredrick. It was no big secret how Fred had left the company for a higher bid, and his father had refused to share his work. The rift it tore in the family made an already secretive man all the more untrusting. That was why Radigan had been buried with all his project notes and blueprints, even if he could have just left them to Dell.

"All right, fine. So it is. So what are ya gonna do? He has to find out someday, Spy. That kid's so damn caught up in--"

"Allow me to rephrase my concerns," Spy cut in. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing out a hazy gray cloud. "I cannot risk forcing Scout to face the truth."

"Pardon?"

"He knows, mon ami. Make no mistake. He was six when he saw me last. I may criticize him, even belittle him, but he is not so dense as to be fooled by a mask alone." The taller man paced a few feet from where he stood, and then back again. He took the last two steps and collapsed into his armchair. "He is in denial, one so deeply imbedded that it would only harm him to take it away."

Dell rubbed his face, trying to take it all in. "...Ya hung in there until he was six years old?"

As his hand slid away from his face, his eyes fell on the wet bar opposite him. God damn he needed a drink. Without asking, he strode over to the stand and helped himself to a still-sealed bottle of scotch. Spy didn't argue.

"That's one hell of a powerful denial, Spy," he mused after a swallow. It burned just a little going down, warming him instantly. Good and strong.

He couldn't imagine how it must've felt for Scout. There were things one never forgot. Smells, for one. Even if Spy were not so particular about his brand of cigarettes, the smell of smoke would have to bring back a thousand fragmented memories and feelings. Not to mention flavored smoke coupled with cologne.

Spy shook his head. "I was not exactly domesticated before that, laboreur. I still went on missions, disappeared for months at a time. Perhaps that made it easier. His mother eventually put more pressure on me to be more... 'present'. As you can imagine, that did not appeal to me."

"So ya took off."

"You make it sound as if I dropped him at an orphanage," Spy grumbled, rolling his eyes. "He had his mother. What kind of father do you think I could ever have been? Not to mention to seven other boys who were not my own. Two sets of twins, and then triplets? Merde! Her late husband left quite the legacy for me."

It all fit together well enough, but the biggest and most obvious piece remained the elephant in the room. "So the Administrator used Scout to get to you?"

He took a long drag off his cigarette, holding the smoke for half a minute before blowing it out just as slowly. "The woman knows how to blackmail, how to use secrets. She found me twice, and she almost had me the second time, but I was able to evade her traps. The third time, I'll never forget. She met me in person. And all she did was slide a folder across the table."

"In person?" Dell was shocked. Even he had only seen Helen in person a handful of times, including in his childhood.

"I thought her a fool. After all, what could she have that would do her any good dead? My curiosity got the better of me. The folder, as she explained, contained all of the paperwork for the team's 'Scout' position. Including a copy of his signed contract with Mann Company."

Dell knew she could be ruthless, but he still found him shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Spy. You know she doesn't stop until she's won."

"Oui. I am aware."

It was too much, and Dell had all but forgotten just how significant it was that he was telling anyone. Not just anyone; he'd told Dell. Because he'd earned at least some manner of trust from him. Yet here he was deliberating over whether or not to lecture Spy on family values. He could lose every ounce of trust he had if he did that. He didn't like this information, but he understood, at least on some level. It wasn't enough to change how he felt towards him.

Sighing, Dell refilled his glass and then filled another, carrying it over to Spy in his chair. "What do ya need me to do?" he asked, keeping his tone reassuring.

Spy sat with one elbow propped on the armrest, that hand supporting his head. When Dell held the glass out in his field of vision, he started slightly as if woken from a nap. "Merci," he mumbled as he took it.

"I don't know, aside from get rid of that imposter," Spy went on after taking a drink.

"Spy, I don't think he is thinkin' about things enough to say anythin'."

"Why are you defending him?"

He was, wasn't he? Of course he was. "Because I get the feelin' Helen ain't gonna give me the go ahead until he stops fightin' the matches and starts tryin' to rebel."

Spy stared at him with tired, emotionless eyes before he sank deeper into his chair and groaned. The rest of his scotch was downed in one go.

Dell sighed again. "Look, I thought I had an idea of what she wanted to do with all this cloning research, but lately I ain't so sure. I do know a lot of BLU is gonna notice if one day their Spy goes back to ground zero like nothin' happened. Meanin' we can't just kill your clone; we'd have to reset the whole dang team."

When Spy only huffed, not replying with the expected 'so do that', Dell knew he'd accepted things for the moment. He took Spy's glass from him and brought it back to the bar. "Just get some rest, darlin'," he coaxed.

"...Perhaps. Care to spend the night?"

Dell looked around the study. He knew Spy didn't use his regular assigned room, but he couldn't sleep in here, either. "Do I get the lounge or a chair?"

The Frenchman didn't answer, just stood and paced over to one of his bookshelves. He picked up two slimmer books together, and then reached into the space they left vacant.

Dell jumped as the bookcase beside it made a loud grating sound and collapsed back a half-foot. The low, grinding noise continued as the entire unit slid to the right behind the true wall and halted. In its wake was an impromptu doorway into an incredibly lavish bedroom area. A king-sized canopy bed draped in deep maroon red satin quilts and curtains dominated the space.

"...Who the hell put that in?" It was an odd thing to ask first, but that sort of feature was generally his area of expertise, and he certainly didn't recall installing a secret door for Spy.

Spy gave him a lopsided smirk. "Please, cher. I am not without resources of my own."

Dell shook his head, incredulous. "Well, this answers a lot of questions." Including how the man bathed, as he noticed an actual bathroom behind the door left ajar to the right. Jokes about his hygiene had been passed around and died by now, all due to the fact that Spy was never spotted in the showers.

"Indeed. Answers only for you, of course," Spy reminded him.

"Ya really do make me feel like I'm somethin' special," he said, perhaps even a bit sheepish as he looked around the hidden room.

"I should hope so," the rogue mused. He had entered, and was looking back towards Dell. "Because you certainly are."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, just severely depressed. But this fic still means a lot to me, thank you to everyone hanging in there.

At the end of bad days, Mick often found himself heading for the old rotary phone inside the base's main area. He just needed to hear his mum's voice. In the beginning he'd expected to be mocked, but before long he discovered at least half of his coworkers could be considered 'mama's boys' and usually no one gave him a hard time.

This time, he feared it wasn't going to be that simple. RED hadn't won a single match and his poor performance had played a major part in that. While snide comments and cold glares were all he had to fear from Heavy and Demo, the others would no doubt confront him. With luck, everyone would head for the commons first.

There was a payphone at the pumping station just a few miles from base. He could have avoided his teammates, but Mick knew if he got behind the wheel he might just keep driving and never turn back. Even now, the only thing that stopped him wasn't his fear of the Administrator hunting him down. He'd be leaving Spy behind, with no one to turn to.

Shit. The bloody BLU Spy, the guy he had loathed for years, was now the only thing on his mind. At this point he just had to accept it; he'd finally snapped. Gone loony from the job. So much for professionalism.

As he listened to his mum chatter away about what needed fixing on the old house, or what chronic health complaints ailed his aging folks, Mick just stared down at his dust-caked boots. The usual bit of guilt for not being home to help was drowned out by something louder tonight. What if this was the last time he talked to her? He called when he was down, but he never actually ended up telling her anything that bothered him. Even if he planned to, he never could get it out when he heard the joy in her voice as soon as she knew it was him. In the end it was always the same old yes and no answers.

_"...You know your father's not young anymore, Micky."_

"Yeah, Mum, I know," he muttered reflexively.

_"...We love you, honey. We just want you to be happy."_

"I am, Mum." He winced at the lie.

For the most part, he had been pretty happy with his life. Until the illusion fell away and he had to start thinking of his enemies as people.

_"...But I wouldn't mind grandkids, you know."_

Mick groaned into the reciever.

_"Now Micky, you're thirty years old. I can't believe there hasn't been a girl in your life. A handsome bloke like you..."_

He felt his eyes roll. Christ, he hated this part. Mick liked women just fine, but they didn't tend to take to his lifestyle well. He often wondered what his mum would say if he told her he fancied men, too.

He zoned out of her rant, wishing he could tell her everything that was happening but knowing he never would. Even if he could work up the courage to confess so many things that would upset her, everyone knew the public phone line was tapped. The Administrator heard every word of it.

Despite her talking for over an hour, none of Mick's teammates came through the main entrance. His mum had finished complaining about her friend and neighbor Mrs. Dooley refusing to see a doctor, and telling him about the kookabura nesting in the tree out back, when he decided to draw it to a close.

"I gotta go, Mum... Yeah, love you too... Right... Sure... Talk to you soon... Bye."

As he sat the receiver down, Mick sighed and ran a hand over his face. Everything hurt, and his headache was still there. One day without his coffee was already too much. On top of that, his stomach had gone from grumbling to outright protesting hours ago. The thought of another can of cold ravioli nauseated him. The dining area would be full of irritable teammates, though. Maybe he'd head back for his camper and take a nap. Just for a few hours, until the others were in bed or at least holed up in their rooms. Then he could raid the kitchen and shower in peace.

Satisfied with the plan, Mick made his way back out of base. He would have kept on his path, but the familiar voices of Scout and Demo reached his sensitive ears. Scowling when he thought he caught his title spoken, he moved back inside to the edge of the hallway.

"...Yeah, well now it ain't just Sniper who's screwin' up every day," Scout was grumbling. "Engie might as well have been sleepin' the whole damn time today."

"Ach, when yer right yer right, lad. Somethin' innae right wit' either of 'em."

Mick frowned as that sunk in. He hadn't checked the scores; he didn't bloody care. He wouldn't have so much as acknowledged the man if their paths did cross out there. Was Engie that upset about their fight? Usually an angry Texan was a more dangerous Texan in Mick's limited experience.

"Well if it ain't better by tomorrow, I'm sayin' somethin'," he heard Scout say, and made a mental note to put extra effort into avoiding him.

There was a light breeze on his skin as he trudged out to his camper, reminding him of the changing seasons. It felt nice, but he wasn't eager to face the colder weather that it hinted at. Heavy always made fun of him for being a baby, citing his childhood in freezing Siberia as what 'real cold' felt like. The giant would understand if he'd grown up in the outback instead. God, he missed when those little banters were the closest things to conflict between him and his mates.

A wave of dizziness and hunger forced him to stop walking, and he realized he'd been staring at his feet. He lifted his head, taking a deep breath and... What the hell?

Still a few yards away, parked where she belonged, was his camper. With the lights on.

_Spy!_

But why would Spy of all people turn on the lights? Maybe he'd just forgotten to shut them off. He wasn't usually that careless, but he wasn't his usual self either.

Dread filled him as he reset his pace, only to spot a shadow moving inside. Shit. What if it was RED Spy, or Engie? Or worse, what if the Administrator had caught on to him and sent someone? Shit, it made no sense for any of them to turn the lights on. Unless they were looking for something. Mick fingered the handle of his kukri still safe at his side. He'd do what he had to.

He moved more cautiously for the rest of the approach, sliding his kukri free as he turned the door latch with his left hand. Blade ready, he pulled the handle outward.

An incredible aroma greeted him as soon as the door was pulled open. Too many flavors for his hungry, tired mind to name filled the small space of his mobile living space. They all blended together in perfect harmony, artfully directed by the slender masked man who stood beside his range.

Spy was stirring the source of the smells in a pan, and his dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows to reveal taunt, muscular forearms. The man even made cooking look sexy. Beside him on the counter were neat little piles of perfectly-diced tomatoes and peppers, and an unopened box of pasta. Had he brought all this stuff just for him? Mick gawked at the rogue, too stupified to speak.

"Bonsoir, bushman," Spy said at last, tapping the spoon on the edge of the pan before setting a cover losely over it. "I hope you'll forgive me for letting myself in. I was beginning to worry." Despite his usual smirk, his eyes were soft. "I hope you haven't already eaten."

Mick nearly collapsed with relief. His kukri flopped to his side before he just tossed it in the corner. Bloody idiot, scaring him like that. "What're you...?" He jerked his head at the meal in progress, suspicious. "What is all this?"

"Your dinner."

"My-" Mick blinked, trying to process it all over the pounding of his headache. He pulled his slouch hat and aviators off to set then aside, and rubbed his temples. "Why?"

He found he was acutely aware of how filthy he was from the day's exertions. As an outdoorsman, he'd never been too bothered by a few missed showers, but being in close quarters with the fastidious Frenchman made him feel uncomfortable. Self-concious, even. He had to stink, and he was just waiting for to comment on it.

"I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue eating that canned dog food." He sneered at the mention of it. "I have not properly thanked you for everything you have done, so I intend to make good."

"So you... wanted to cook for me?"

A pang of guilt struck him, barely drowning out the hunger pains at the thought of a decent meal. 'After all he'd done', as if he hadn't just put both of them in ten times more danger. As if the RED Spy and Engineer weren't planning to destroy him. Because he didn't know. He was probably hoping Mick would have some decent information for him. How badly he was going to be let down.

"...You obviously had an unpleasant day," Spy said. An uncharacteristic apprehension had crept into his tone. "Allow me to save the end of it, s'il vous plais. Assuming you're hungry," he added hopefully.

"...I... yeah. I am," he admitted. "Really ya don't gotta go through all this trouble, though."

"It is no trouble. I happen to enjoy cooking." He waved a hand at the dinette. "Sit, Mundy."

Christ. He couldn't tell him he'd screwed up. He was going to have to find a way to fix it. He just had to. That charming smile was too sincere to ruin. Everything about the Spy's company made Mick giddy, but it comforted him, too. His movements had so much grace that they made the cluttered camper seem comical in comparison. After a day from hell, to be able to sit down and just enjoy his presence a true luxury.

"You seemed under the weather this morning," he remarked as he put a saucepan of water on the right side burner. He'd managed to find Mick's dishes without any trouble, then. "Did you miss your morning coffee?"

"How often do ya lurk around starin' at me? I didn't see ya all bloody week!" he snapped.

The Frenchman's shoulders jerked, his body tensing. "I... apologize for that. I had some things I needed time to think about."

Mick could see he hit a nerve, though he wasn't sure why. He hadn't meant to get short with him, though. "Oi, nevermind. S'fine. Guess I was so pathetic today ya couldn't even bother tryin' to get me."

Spy added a few pinches of what was presumably salt to the water. "You looked like you were about to be sick, mon ami."

"So, pathetic then." Mick crossed his arms across his chest and slouched lower in the bench. He huffed then, ashamed of his sharp edges. Spy was being so considerate it hurt. "...M'sorry. Yeah. Ran outta coffee filters. Didn't have time to get any before the match."

"I'm surprised you can get away with drinking so much and still have such steady aim."

"Just always had a high tolerance for that stuff," he said with a shrug. "Buggers me aim more if I don't drink it."

"That's the withdrawl." Spy added some kind of pasta to the pot before turning back to him with a grim expression. "But I somehow doubt a little caffeine withdrawl is enough to cause the disaster I witnessed today."

What was left of Mick's pride boiled and spilled over the surface. "Oi, shut your trap, Spook! Quit actin' like you ain't been a mess every other day since the doc had ya on ice."

Spy cringed and turned away. Then Mick's stomach plummeted to the core of the earth as he silently placed his utensils aside and stepped back. He was going to walk out, and he had every reason to.

"Shit. Spook, m'sorry. Ignore me, all right? I'm an ass, I know but... please don't leave."

The Frenchman turned and gave him a perplexed look before slipping into the seat across from him. "I wasn't going to. I'm just letting the linguine cook."

"I... Oh." Mick felt his cheeks getting warm and he squirmed in his spot. "Right then."

Spy sighed. "My criticism was not meant to insult, mon ami. I only meant that... well, I've been a bit concerned."

A jolt of surprise stole a couple heartbeats from Mick. Lifting his eyes from the mottled surface of the tabletop, he was met with a soft, patient pair of blue ones. "You ain't gotta worry. S'just a bad day," he lied, despising himself for doing so.

The overhead light illuminated the other's face as his frown deepened. The change was barely perceivable, but he must have been getting used to Spy's subtle tells. After a few seconds of sitting there with the man's eyes boring into him, Mick was freed by a curt nod.

"Very well, bushman," he conceded, getting up. He wasn't buying it.

Holding back a sigh of relief, Mick sank deeper still into his seat. He hadn't even realized that he'd gotten so tense. Now he just felt like a real wanker.

Spy had turned back to his cooking, leaving Mick with a rather enjoyable view of his backside, unhidden by the jacket as it usually was. His slacks hung just right over the subtle curve of his buttocks, and Mick couldn't deny his eyes the indulgence. He wasn't supposed to be looking at the other man like this, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't just turn off the attraction. Resisting only got harder when Spy had so clearly made his interest known. How much longer before Mick lost the will to keep fighting it?

He imagined being close. Moving in behind him, and wrapping his arms around that slender waist while planting kisses up along the back of his neck. Maybe he'd even be allowed to push up the edge of the balaclava and give the pale, rarely-exposed skin there some extra affection.

Mick stopped himself before his fantasy went too far. He had to distract himself, say something, anything.

"Just felt lousy," he heard himself confessing. "I guess I usually have somthin' to eat before dinner... An' I've got this splittin' headache. Just a combination of stuff, y'know?"

"So if you weren't having dinner, where were you, if may ask? Certainly not showering."

Damn it, there it was. He just couldn't leave that alone, could he? Mick felt his cheeks burning. "Oi, I wasn't plannin' on company. For all I knew you'd decided not to have anythin' to do with me. I'm going back later, anyway so-"

"Mundy." Spy shut off the burners before looking over at him. His face was impassive, save for the smallest hint of a bemused smile on his lips. "Relax."

"Just quit commenting on every little flaw, would ya? I was callin' me mum, all right?"

The Frenchman's eyebrows lifted up until the top edge of his mask furrowed, and Mick realized what he'd admitted in his flustered state.

"Oh don't say it!" Mick burrowed what had to be a bright red face in his palms miserably.

"I think it's rather... charming," Spy said. "Even my false memories of parents were not very fond, I'm afraid." The sadness in his tone made Mick glad he couldn't see his face.

After a moment of silence, something hit him, and he lifted his head from his hands. He didn't want to sink this low, but after everything his teammates had said, wasn't feeling too concerned about honor, either.

"Hey, Spook?"

"Hm?" His soft hum of acknowledgement was just loud enough to be heard over the water sloshing as he drained the pasta.

"So Spy - y'know, the other one - he's got all these secrets, why not use them against him?" he ventured.

The corner of Spy's mouth that he could see turned downward into a frown. For a long moment, no response came, an eerie silence building up and threatening to drown Mick. He'd begun to wish he hadn't said it when at last the Frenchman replied.

"I would not do that. Were it anyone else, I would have no qualms, but I suppose in spite of my feelings of detachment from his memories, a sort of empathy remains."

Mick tried to bite his tongue but the words fought their way out past it. "To hell with that bastard, Spook! He wants you dead, _permanently_!"

"And I do not blame him. His life has not been a pleasant one." Spy met his incredulous gaze with a solemn stare.

"Bloody hell. Sorry, mate, but he ain't gettin' my sympathy if he tries to hurt ya."

The icy finality in Spy's voice dissolved then, and a sad smile curled across his lips. "Awe, mon beau champion," he teased.

Mick gave a groan. "Oi, give it a rest, Spook," he said, though his tone lacked any real offense.

A light, half-heartened chuckle was the only response as the man went back to finishing the meal. He wondered if Spy had given up on seducing him, or if this was all just another attempt. If so, it was working. Then again he already wanted the man, so all this amounted to was torment.

"Why are ya really doin' all this?"

"As I said, you have done plenty for me. I could manage a simple meal."

Mick winced. He couldn't take it anymore. Spy sounded so earnest, and he was just sitting here taking advantage of unearned gratitude. "Shit. Spook, look, I... I gotta tell ya somethin'."

The pair of eyes that fell on him when Spy turned burned him. He glanced away, shifting in his seat so he could rest his arms over the table. He wrang his hands together.

"Go on."

"...Look, I uh... Fuck!" He bent his elbows to bring his hands up, then dropped his head into them. "Spook I messed up. Bad." He combed his fingers through his hair roughly. "I tried to talk to Engie and I ended up gettin' in a bloody fight with him. Blew everything. He knows, and so does our Spy. Ya come here goin' on about how much I helped ya but I didn't. I fucked it up."

He took a deep breath, fixating on the sounds of the desert. Without the chorus of wildlife in the background, it would have been silent. His heart raced and he slid his hands back down over his face to hide it. The incandescent light still cut between his fingers in little strips of gold.

Finally, he heard Spy shift and the light sound of what he assumed was the knife being set down. He was lucky it wasn't being driven into his damn back.

"I had a feeling... Non, more than that. I knew this was my fault."

He sounded so damn sad, Mick felt sicker than he already had just hearing him. He pulled his head from his hands. "Oi, it ain't your fault I fucked up! I lost my temper. I'm just no good at all that code language bullshit."

After another half minute of quiet, Mick forced himself to lift his head and look over at the rogue. Spy had turned back to the counter, now with his head hung instead of Mick's.

"Spook, I'm sorry," he pleaded. "I'm really sorry I swear I'll fix this. I don't got a clue how but I will. I just- he referred to ya like an animal, like ya were just livestock for slaughter. I lost it..."

He trailed off, but he wanted to say more. His heart almost hurt from beating so fast. Still the Frenchman wouldn't turn around. Mick traded his gaze from the man's back to the tabletop in short bursts until he realized Spy's shoulders were shaking.

_Shit!_

He knocked his knee on the table bar getting up but barely felt it, moving to stand behind Spy. Short, wavering little breaths became audible as he did. What was he supposed to do here? If he reached out to him, there was a good chance he'd be stabbed with his own kitchen knife. A tiny sound, a gasp but shorter, left the rogue, and Mick crumbled. Gingerly, he triend placing a hand on his left arm.

"Spook? Please, say somethin'."

Spy spun fast enough that he almost slammed into him, as Mick imagined where the dagger would hit. There was no stab though; just two arms wrapping around his torso and a face nestling into his shoulder. He tensed, standing dumbly before it occurred to him to fold his arms around the other man. It was doubtful that he was of any comfort at all, though. Mick had always been lousy at this sort of thing, but he couldn't not try. He tried rubbing a hand across the rogue's shoulders, and Spy's grip on him tightened.

"Mundy." The name came out as a muffled whimper. "You're too much... Why do you care?"

_Because it kills me to see you like this_ , were the words he wanted to say. "I just do," he said instead.

"Merde. Tu seras la mort de moi," Spy whispered, still clutching him close.

Mick didn't bother asking him to translate. Something told him he wouldn't know what to do with the words even if they were in English. He breathed in deep through his nose, drowning himself in the scents of Spy's cologne and cigarettes. At what point he'd started to love that smell he couldn't say, but it felt so familiar now. So much so that he didn't really want to let go.

It was the clearing of his throat that ended up undoing it, but not intentionally. Maybe he'd been getting a little choked up, thinking about just how much Spy trusted him. But the noise broke the spell, and the Frenchman pulled away, avoiding eye contact. Mick still noticed the way the light caught the dampness in his eyes, but he resisted the urge to pull him back in.

"I... apologize. I don't mean to behave so foolishly."

"S'not foolish," Mick mumbled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Little unexpected but..." He trailed off, not sure what to do in such close proximity to the other man.

Spy had nowhere to go in the small space, effectively backed into the counter. After an awkward half-minute, Mick's senses kicked in and he moved back, staring at the flecks of desert dirt on the floor. He really needed to sweep.

"I am a killer, mon ami. You've said before, there is no room for feelings here."

"Sorta rings hollow now we're havin' dinner together, huh? I mean, never figured I'd be thinkin' of ya as me mate but, well..." Mick shrugged.

Spy was staring at him when he managed to look up, eyes still moist but brows raised high.

Mick squirmed under that gaze. "...What?"

"If I did not know better, I would think you just suggested we have become friends." There was no taunting in his melodic voice that time.

The heat was rising in his cheeks again. "Well, I... wouldn't say we're obeyin' the protocol of enemies anymore, so how should I be puttin' it?"

Spy's smile was so bittersweet that Mick could barely look at him without choking up again. "I rather like the sound of friends."

"Y-yeah. Sounds 'bout right."

Except that both of them wanted more. If he'd gone as far as he had already, there was no point in holding back. Yet he still couldn't admit how badly he wanted the other man. It scared him to even think about. It would change him, ruin the professional assassin persona he'd built his entire self around. He couldn't give up himself like that, let alone for someone who could very well be torn away from him as soon as he got attached.

Friendship was safer. Mick could still hold on to what he was. A hitman with standards. He wasn't being unprofessional, he just was against playing some sick game, torturing men who'd never even had a chance to live at all. So what if that meant sitting down with a forbidden ally? This wasn't a job anymore, it was a trap he wanted out of. And there was nothing wrong with having a meal while discussing it. They still had to eat, after all. What difference did it make if that meal was an incredible, expertly cooked gourmet dish, complete with wine?

If that night they drank the whole bottle, and set aside talk of their plans so Mick could share stories about his folks, that wasn't such a bad thing. It didn't do any harm to have Spy just listening to him talk, chin in his palms and elbows on the table. Both their bodies humming with the warmth of alcohol. The smoky blend of luxury tobacco and cheap supermarket cigarettes filling the air. Laughter trading places with oddly soothing moments of quiet that lingered until the early morning hours.

None of that changed Mick. He was still the skilled marksman who relied on no one but himself. He was fine on his own.

He was still the Sniper when he woke in the bench seat to his alarm.

Mick squinted into the golden beams of sunlight that angled their was through the window. As his eyes adjusted he noticed a box in the middle of the counter, surrounded by a clean kitchen space. Coffee filters. Had that bloody idiot actually gone all the way to and from his base a second time just to drop those off? He shook his head in disbelief. He pulled himself upright, and the blanket draped over him slid off his torso into his lap.


End file.
